


All Cats are Grey in the Dark

by mayatheyellowbee



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Crossover, Dark Fantasy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Instability, Psychological Trauma, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayatheyellowbee/pseuds/mayatheyellowbee
Summary: Peter is a Witcher, hired to kill Deadpool, another monster hunter gone rogue. But when he meets his target, he realizes there is more behind Deadpool's recent killing spree than what he's been led to believe. Despite their diverging opinions on the subject of murder, they have to put their differences aside to face a monster far worse - and more human - than any they've ever fought before.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82
Collections: Spideypool Big Bang - The 2020 Collection





	All Cats are Grey in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cheermione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheermione/gifts).



> Hi everyone! Here is, finally, my piece for this year's Spideypool Big Bang. I had planned it to be only 15k... instead, it has become the longer fic I have ever written. It is also the first time I have tried my hand at smut since highschool (but we don't talk about these days), so lots of firsts for me! I've had the pleasure of working with the talented Cheermione, who did an amazing job on Peter and Wade's armours, and created the most Disney-like horse you've ever seen for Wade to own. Check out Cheermione's art on [Tumblr](https://cheermione.tumblr.com/post/641955535754838016/my-second-time-participating-in-the) and here on [Ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139624)  
>  Go give her some love, and enjoy the fic!!!

Being a Witcher often entails dealing with entitled nobles, Peter has learned after a couple of decades on the Path. Monsters are, unfortunately, not the most unpleasant part of the job. Aldermen are the most recurring occurrence, as they often are responsible for the contracts found on small villages’ noticeboards, and sometimes lords will send a valet to hire him, to deal with a monster disturbing the serfs’ work in their domain or frightening the ladies. More rarely, he has to don his least stained shirt and take a trip to the closest barber and try to remember how to behave in front of high nobility, at least for the time it takes to negotiate the terms of his contract.

Peter has only been twice summoned at court. The first time, only a few years after his debut as a fully-fledged Witcher, he spent a night in Beauclair’s castle, hunting a wraith in the ducal wine cellar. It was discovered that the Duchess’ consort had spread the rumor of the tormented spirit and was entertaining his numerous mistresses between the barrels of Sangreal, enjoying the deserted area at its fullest. Peter hadn’t been paid that time. That’s what he hates the most about nobles: their purses are tied tighter than a dwarf’s, and their pride more sensitive than an elf’s.

The second time has led to his current situation, in Aedirn’s royal palace, head bowed before a king whose name he has already forgotten. Last time he was in the country, it was a stocky guy named Virfuril, but the old man has been assassinated a week ago, leaving the throne to his eldest son. Which apparently is the reason why Peter has been summoned here.

He probably should have taken a crash course in politics before agreeing to the king’s demand for a meeting, because the man has been talking about intercountry relationships for the last fifteen minutes, and Peter doesn’t understand - or care about - half of it. All he knows is that his target is wreaking havoc not only amongst Aedirnian nobility, but also in Temeria and, at least in two different occasions, in Cintra.

Peter has heard about Deadpool before, like every living Witcher in the last half a century or so. The mutant from the School of the Cat is a pariah even among his peers. He’s known to accept mercenary jobs as well as monster hunting, like most Cats tend to do, but his kill count is unparalleled by even the most murderous of them.

And it has apparently gone through the roof in the last few months, the rogue mutant spilling blue blood all over the Northern Kingdoms. This time, though, he killed a king, and Aedirn has declared him public enemy. 

Peter’s first thought was that Deadpool must have been hired by Virfuril’s heir to hasten his own rise to power, but the new king seems earnest in his fury as he asks Peter to avenge his father.

He doesn’t bargain for his reward: he really hopes to find a way to put a stop to Deadpool’s rampaging frenzy without having to kill him, and he’s used to not getting paid when he doesn’t bring a head back to his contractor. But killing a specimen of an endangered species who can be reasoned with has always been something Peter despises doing, and if Witchers don’t count as an endangered species, then he doesn’t know what does.

*

The hunt reveals itself easier than Peter had anticipated. He’s always heard Deadpool is one of the best Witchers alive if you put aside his dubious morals. Fast, strong, vicious, wearing a leather mask to hide a disfigured face. He expects him to be hard to track down too, but after a few days gathering information around Vengerberg and less than a week on the road heading in what he suspects is the direction the Cat took after the late king’s murder, he hears news of another characteristic assassination in a small village in north Lyria. 

This time, the victim has no noble blood in their veins: an old herborist slayed in her own shop, after what looks like a long night of torture. Even Peter winces at the gruesome nature of the scene.

Still shaken, the herborist’s assistant points him south, where she saw a masked figure riding a war horse at dawn before she found her master’s body, and Peter pushes Evall, his dappled grey mare, at a faster pace, more resolute than ever to catch the bastard.

For a couple of days, he finds obvious signs of campsites, with no doubt on who built them: the scent of sword oil, leather, monster ichor and a taste of lingering magic always greet him, the unmistakable scent of _Witcher._ Deadpool is only a few days ahead of him, and doesn’t even bother to cover his tracks. He is either very reckless, or intentionally taunting him.

Peter finds his answer at an inn on the bank of the Yaruga, a few miles outside of Brugge. He enters the establishment on a stormy evening, preferring to spend the last of his coin on a room and a hot meal rather than enduring the night under the rain. As soon as he crosses the threshold, the innkeeper makes a surprised noise. It’s not an uncommon reaction, Peter is used to people being displeased by his presence near civilised areas, even if it is rarer in such a travelled place. He’s pretty sure he came here before, and the welcome was cold but not hostile.

He’s bracing himself, expecting to be asked to leave the premises, but the man only waves at him to come closer as he circles the counter. Peter frowns, but complies.

“There was another like you here this morning, said you’d be here before the storm. Paid for your room,” the innkeeper says when Peter approaches, digging in a drawer behind the bar. “Left you a message, too.”

Peter takes the stained piece of paper and unfolds it with a frown. It takes him a few seconds to decipher the scribbled words, but rage and frustration bubble in his stomach when he does.

'Enjoy the bed. You’ll need the rest if you want to catch up one day.'

The handwriting is messy, and a little stick figure has been badly drawn in the corner of the page, but he recognizes the Wolf School medallion around its neck. It’s a childish rendition of Peter, riding a snail in lieu of a horse.

“When was he here?” he asks the innkeeper between clenched teeth, fury bottled up so as not to scare the oblivious man and the young barmaid swiping the sticky floor in a corner.

“Told you, this morning. He didn’t even sleep ‘ere, just came around when I was feeding the chickens, said he wanted me to give that to the next Witcher I’d see. Didn’t expect him to be right, we don’t see much of your type around ‘ere.”

“Did you see where he was heading?”

“He followed the river west to the Ribbon. A weird fella too. Wore a mask the whole time we were talking.”

Peter is out of the inn before the man has even finished talking. Scratching Evall between the ears in a silent excuse to the tired horse, the young Witcher prepares himself for a long night. He won’t let Deadpool taunt him longer than he already has. 

*

It rains all night and Peter is soaked, cold, and in a foul mood when the sky finally clears in the early morning. The forest is bathed in a bleak light and the remnants of the storm cling to the air, droplets of water shining in the canopy and dripping in his hair and collar as he sneaks in the underbrush, his footprints creating dark puddles in the mud. He’s smelled the cold ashes of a fire for a little while and has dismounted early to make sure he doesn’t make a noise. It’s not easy to sneak up on a witcher, even for another one, but Peter takes all the precautions –he stays downwind, light on his foot, crouched low to keep from rustling the lowest leaves.

It’s not enough.

A little clearing between the trees opens on an efficiently set up one-night camp, the remains of last night’s dinner buried under the damp coal, a patch of flattened grass the last witness of a tent already packed away. Everything is the same as the abandoned camps Peter has found everyday for the past week. Except that Deadpool is here, _waiting_ for him. Gambeson on, swords strapped to his back, an ugly beige horse grazing on the skirts of the meadow, saddled and ready to leave. The Witcher clearly could have left long before Peter arrived, made him run a little more, but he is here, sitting on a log, playing with a ridiculously pimped dagger.

There is no doubt that Deadpool is waiting for him, and it doesn’t make sense to keep the pretense of stealth when the advantage of surprise is already ruined, so Peter straightens up from behind the shrub he chose as a hiding place and enters the clearing, trying to appear confident even as his dignity lies somewhere in the mud behind him.

The Witcher raises his head at his approach, his features not letting out any surprise. He probably heard his heart beat a while ago, expecting company. Peter, though, is a little ashamed of the flitting look of surprise that must have shown on his face. He has heard of Deadpool’s infamous ugliness; the scars that cover every inch of his skin, have been since his Trials if the rumours are true, that he hides behind a distinctive red and black leather mask.

But scars are a normal part of the Witcher trade. No one survives on the Path without their own collection of marred skin, pale memories of claws, fangs and swords. It’s a source of pride for some. Peter has a good number of them too.

No, the scars aren’t what he notices first, after having sized up the man – and sweet Melitele, he’s big.

The eyes. They aren’t the sickly yellow shade Peter has seen so often in Cat School alumni, or other Witchers who’s Trials only barely left them alive, the mutagens injected to reshape them a poison that burnt through every cell of their body. Those who came out of it were changed, but it always left a mark. The first scar. The deepest.

Deadpool’s eyes aren’t like that, though. They are a shade of amber so bright and warm it is the only color that stands out in the bleak morning light, so different from Peter’s own golden gaze.

They assess him with a cold, calculating look, before his face splits in a toothy grin.

“My my, I wasn’t expecting my new shadow to be such a cute twink. I’d have stopped sooner if I’d known. What a waste of time.”

Peter is taken aback by the flirting, but he doesn’t let on. Control over emotions is the first thing Witcher trainees learn, after all the best places to kill a man-shaped adversary. Face blank, he stops a few meters away from the other, close enough to maintain the illusion of a civilised conversation, but far enough that he can unsheathe his sword before Deadpool can reach him if need be. “I’d have sent you a drawing too if I could’ve, but you didn’t leave an address on your note. I figured I’d pay you a visit.”

“How courtly,” the Witcher coos, “I wouldn’t expect any less from a Wolf. Gentlemen, all of you. So righteous, honor and pride, all that. A damsel’s wet dream.”

Peter ignores the sarcasm and disdain at the mention of his school. Cats hate the other schools, and the feeling is often returned.“It seems you’re the gentleman now. Kindly waiting for me to catch up. How nice.”

Visibly amused by Peter’s fast quip, the other Witcher leans slightly back, his smile getting even broader. It reminds Peter of a wolf showing its teeth.“Yeah, I thought we’d have a little chat. Get to know each other, you know. I’m not an easy man. You gotta buy me dinner first.”

“I’d offer you a drink in the next town but I believe you’ve killed a renowned physician there a couple of months ago. They might not welcome us so warmly.”

“When is a Witcher welcomed like a human being ?” Deadpool huffs, his smile losing some of its warmth.

“Is that why you’re slaughtering all these people ? They didn’t say ‘hi’ back to you ?”

To Peter’s utter surprise, the Witcher pouts childishly, tapping the tip of his dagger against his protruding lip. Is that really the famed Deadpool, dangerous predator to men and monsters alike?

“They said I was ugly. Not very polite. Had to teach them.”

“I think you should try pedagogy instead of, you know, murder.”

“Funny, wolf cub. So, are you gonna use your silver sword on me?”

“I’m not here to kill you, Deadpool. We can find another arrangement.”

“What, you’re gonna make me pinky promise not to kill humans again?” the Cat scoffs “Because there’s zero fucking chance that will happen, pup.”

The knife is thrown so fast Peter barely registers the flash of silver before casting a Quen shield that deflects the weapon with a few orange sparks. 

“Come on, Deadpool. We don’t have to do this.”

“I won’t let you stop me. I’d rather not kill you, cutie pie, but you’re the one who started. Following me like I’m one of your contracts.” Deadpool tuts. He’s still sitting on his log, looking for all the world like he never even moved.

“You are, actually. But I’m ready to abandon the reward if you tell me why you’ve been killing all these people.”

“Oh, you came here for exposition? You should have said sooner. I’d have worked on my narrator voice.”

“... What?”

The Cat waves a dismissing hand. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, pup, because I need help, and I don’t have time to ask around, so you might as well do the trick.”

“Well, I’m honored.” Peter rolls his eyes. Deadpool indicates a seat on the log next to him, but the Wolf declines it. Something in Deadpool has him on edge, the banter and flirting not fooling him as to how dangerous the Cat is, like a colourful, but poisonous, flower.

“Suit yourself. So, you want to know about little ole me, huh? Well, it all started when I was no bigger than a halfling, and my dear papa decided to sell me to a big bad Witcher to repay his debts…”

“Deadpool,” Peter growls, feeling a building headache behind his forehead. “Cut the crap. Tell me why you decided slaughtering some of the most important people in three different countries was a good idea. I’m not here to write your biography.”

“A shame. You’d make some pretty good coin with that. People always want to know about that time I had a threesome with an incubus and a succubus.”

“ _Deadpool._ ”

“Fine, fine. You’re a fucking partypooper, anyone ever told you that? Right, how should I start.” Deadpool cocks his head on the side, gaze briefly unfocused, as if listening to a voice Peter can’t hear. The internal conversation seems to be satisfactory, as the Cat starts speaking again. “First of all, these people really deserved to die, you know. Nuh-uh, don’t interrupt me with your moral values or whatever, they _did_. The baron in Velen? He used to beat his wife and kids to an inch of their lives every friday after dinner. The Ban Ard mage in White Orchard sold spells that would make the victim suggestible and pliable. Unsurprisingly, it was used by many as rape drug. And the Skelligan ambassador liked to lure homeless children back to his room and abuse them in his free time. I cut the dick off this bastard and made him eat it before I slit his throat.” There, again, he stops to listen to something, before chuckling and adding, as if to himself: “Yeah. That was cathartic.”

“And a fucking mess to clean up, yes, I saw the body. So you’re telling me you’re on a quest to kill every bad person on the Continent? There’s only going to be a handful of innocents left once you’re done.”

“And wouldn’t the world be a better place then? But no, I’m not the vigilantee from an erotica novel, even though I’ve got the good look for it. All these people had information I needed and they wouldn’t give it away when I asked them nicely.”

“It still doesn’t explain why you had to kill them. Surely they were still alive once you had your information.”

“Oh yes, but I couldn’t resist the appeal of seeing their poisoned blood run down my blades. It’s the force of habit, you see. I can’t find a monster that I don’t want to kill. It’s why we’ve been created after all.”

“Some would argue you’re a monster too, you know.”

“And they’d be right. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Not if I can help it,” Peter shakes his head slightly, gaze not leaving the other Witcher for a second. “You’re not the first Witcher who strayed from the Path. Stop killing humans, go back to doing your job. Change circuit for a few years. The others will understand, things will settle down. You’ll be forgotten around here in a couple of decades, and you can come back.”

“Oh, I can come back, can I? Just lay low for a while. Because it’s so easy to lay low when you’ve two swords and a face to make babes cry, right? Half of the Continent wants me dead and I can’t even be mad for it. But I have to finish what I started, or it won’t be just a couple dozen fuckers like us who’ll have to live like this. They’ll make more, and this whole nightmare is going to start all over again.”

“What do you mean? They don’t make Witchers anymore. No one knows how to.”

“You sure about that? Because last time I checked, there’s a fucking mage playing God like all those dipshits from Ban Ard who seems to know a lot about the Trials. And he’s not wasting that knowledge.”

“That’s… it’s impossible.” Peter is stunned. There’s no way someone figured out how to make Witchers again. All the formulas were burnt when the Schools were attacked, and the remaining Witchers had neither the ability nor the will to attempt performing the Trials again. Too many children had been lost, either to the violence of the mutagens, or to the sheer cruelty of men.

“Well, think what you want, pretty face, but someone has definitely gathered enough information about us to try and replicate the mutations. Kids have been taken off the streets and from orphanages and experimented on. I found a laboratory in Oxenfurt, and another one in Ebbing. Both abandoned, but they left the bodies behind. And I remember my Trials enough to know what it looks like when you don’t make it to the other side.” Deadpool spits bitterly.

“But… how could they have accessed this knowledge?”

“What do you think? There are no records left of the original experiments, and all those who knew how to perform them were killed when the Schools were attacked. Two Witchers disappeared without leaving a body behind in the last ten years. I can only imagine at least one of them was used as a test subject.”

Loathe as Peter is to admit it, it makes sense. A Witcher dying alone on the Path isn’t a rarity. In the old days, someone from their School would have gone looking for them, to try to give their body a decent inhumation, and bring back their medallion to their school. But now that there is only a handful of them, it’s not unusual for the death of one of them to go unnoticed for months, sometimes years, and often no one bothers to give them a proper farewell.

“But why would… Why would someone want to create more Witchers? It doesn’t make sense,” Peter scowls. The first time had proved to be a mistake, after all. Humans had shown they didn’t want Witchers around, even to protect them from monsters. 

“Why would anyone want to create an army of enhanced men in times of war? The king who’s in possession of such an army is sure to conquer any rival. They’re all fighting to get their hands on it first.”

“The mage doesn’t work for one of them?”

Deadpool shakes his head. “No. They’re a loose element, ready to sell their creation to the highest bidder. But the formula has to be on point for that and I don’t think they’ve succeeded quite yet.”

“You want to stop them before they find the right formula,” Peter completes.

“That I am, pup. Now you’re either gonna let me do it, or you’re gonna try to stop me, and I can’t let that happen. What will it be?”

Deadpool is clearly bracing himself for a fight, his fingers wiggling as if itching to hold his sword. Peter only has a few seconds to give his answer, and his choice of words is crucial.

“I’ll take the third option,” the Wolf says, and confusion mixes with doubt on Deadpool’s face. “I’ll help you. There can’t be a new generation of Witchers, and certainly not at the cost of more children’s lives. I won’t allow it.”

“Well, if I didn’t know better I’d say you had a thing for my pretty eyes.” Deadpool jokes, but Peter can see real surprise reflected in his amber eyes.

“I’ll help you, but with one condition. No killing humans anymore.”

The Cat’s face sombers.

“Damn it pretty boy. I almost thought we’d find an arrangement. I don’t think you’ve quite understood what I do. I see a monster, I kill it. And there are a lot of them on the trail that leads to that fucking mage. I’m not going to leave them breathing if I get a chance to slit their throats. And once I find that fucktard, I’ll gut them with their own intestines. That is non-negotiable.”

“We are supposed to protect humans, not kill them. We’ll bring the criminals to justice, but -”

Deadpool interrupts him with a scoff. “And when has justice cared about the crimes of the rich, wolf cub? No one cares what they get up to, as long as the victims are poor. The only thing that can stop them is death. Even that is too merciful.”

“Listen, there’s more chance to find the mage if there’s two of us. Even if you could find them by yourself, fighting a mage alone would be stupid. If they can’t be reasoned with, you can kill them. If what you say is true, no court will agree to judge them, so we’ll have to execute them ourselves.” Peter pales at the idea, but he knows Deadpool is right to some extent. If the mage has something several kingdoms covet, then they can’t count on men’s justice. “But in the meantime, no killing, torturing or maiming any witness or accomplice we encounter. Those are my terms.”

Deadpool considers it, jaw clenched. Discontent rolls in waves off of him, and Peter mentally prepares himself for a fight, because he does not know what else he could say that would placate his adversary, but to his utter surprise, the Cat gives him a curt nod.

“Let’s do it your way for now, pretty boy. You’re right, I need help. Might as well be you.”With that, he relaxes his stance and walks toward his horse, tightening the leather straps around the gelding’s stomach.

Peter slowly unwinds the tension gathered in his shoulders, and watches with uncertainty as Deadpool jumps on the saddle.

“The name’s Wade, by the way. And this is Princess,” he says as he pats his horse’s shoulder.

Peter raises an amused eyebrow. “You know your horse is a male, right?”

“But he likes the name, right Princess?” the horse whinnies softly and Peter has to hold back a surprised laugh.

“My name’s Peter,” he says instead. Deadpool- _Wade_ considers him with his thin-slitted pupils before cracking another one of his unhinged smiles.

“Well Peter, let’s kick some magical ass.”

*

It soon becomes obvious that Wade only has a vague trail leading to their target. The mage is smart, and only leaves tidbits of information to anyone they’re in contact with. That’s why Wade has been going from one corner of the Continent to the other to find every person who’s been involved directly or indirectly with them, extorting the name of his next target. It’s a slow, frustrating process, made worse by Deadpool’s instability.

Witchers from the Cat School are notoriously crazy, a slight alteration in the mutagens used to reshape them into monster hunters enhancing their feelings and making them unpredictable, disturbed, and prone to psychopathy, and Wade is no exception. Peter has never met a Witcher who talked so much, the Cat entertaining an almost continuous stream of words, jumping from one topic to another with no visible logic, talking to himself in a way that makes Peter feel like he is only hearing half of a conversation.

That doesn’t make him stupid; the Cat is as sharp with his words as his swords and Peter enjoys their banter, the company a nice change from the usual loneliness of the Path. Even the winters spent at Kaer Morhen with his kin don’t provide such companionship. Peter is too wary of his temporary partner to consider him a _friend_ , but he certainly finds him interesting.

Deadpool also proves himself to be an immensely talented Witcher, a perfect combination of strength and agility in battle, a deadly shadow one moment and an unstoppable force the next. Peter has the occasion to watch him in action one evening when they pass by an abandoned settlement roamed by half a dozen ghouls and one vicious alghoul. The two of them make quick work of the necrophages and Peter is drawn by the almost choreographed way Deadpool moves with his sword. His Signs aren’t quite at Peter’s level, but he makes it up with a generous amount of superior bombs.

They stop at the next village to inform the alderman that the settlement has been cleared, Wade carefully repositioning his leather mask back into place before any human eyes can catch a glance of his scarred face.

This is another thing Peter learns about his new companion: the man hates his looks. When it’s only the two of them, he doesn’t bother hiding his face. That would be useless: Witchers are as familiar to scars as they are to their swords. Peter is unfazed by the marred skin twisting tightly over the bone. He doesn’t ask where the scars come from. But as soon as they enter some form of civilized area, the mask is back into place.

The only time Peter sees him take it off in front of a human is when they’ve managed to corner a Koviri pirate who procured kids for the mage for a while, before the sorcerer vanished to another unknown location. Like the other contacts before him, the smuggler never actually had a direct encounter with his employer, and cannot tell them more than what they already know: their target is not here anymore.

Out of frustration, or maybe in a fit of madness, Wade rips his mask off and brings his face at biting distance from his victim’s, fixing him with an unhinged look that has the man pissing himself in terror. Peter intervenes right before the Cat slits their captive’s throat. He yanks Deadpool back and away from the shaking, piss-soaked bandit, which almost earns him a punctured artery when the other Witcher points his blade to the side of his neck, furious at being robbed of his kill.

Coincidentally, this is the same night they fall into bed together for the first time.

Because of Deadpool’s gruesome reputation, they prefer to sleep outside most nights, trading the comfort of a real bed for the starry night sky. Peter likes it, especially when the weather is so mild. It’s peaceful, the forest sounds and smells far less irritating to his senses than an inn’s ruckus and sweat and piss sour smells.

After their encounter with the pirate, Wade is far from the usual cheerful and flirty asshole Peter has gotten used to in the past couple of weeks. He is irritable, and frustrated by the dead end their trail has led them to. Peter takes care of hunting for their dinner, catching two fat rabbits in his snares and cooking them over the fire with a makeshift spit while Wade begrudgingly takes care of the horses, mumbling either to them or to himself, Peter doesn’t care to eavesdrop. Let the man work his steam off by himself, as a Witcher ought to.

They eat their dinner in silence, cicadas filling the night with their singing, and Peter finds it almost meditative, until the sound of Wade aggressively whetting his steel sword pulls him out of his reverie. Glancing back at his companion, Peter winces at the violent treatment he bestows his blade. Maintaining one’s weapons is one of the most important tasks to a Witcher’s trade, and is usually done in a reverent, almost meditative attitude. The angry swipes of the whetting stone Wade is currently inflicting to the steel are more susceptible to leave scrapes on the flat of the blade than to sharpen its edge.

Peter stands up, unsheathing his own sword from its scabbard where he laid it on the ground next to his seat. Wade peers at him from the ground, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Peter gives his knee a light kick.

“Come on, let’s train for a bit. I need to spend some energy.”

A sharp toothed smile spreads on Wade’s face, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes.

“Looking to get your lovely ass kicked, Petey-pie?”

“We’ll see about that,” Peter replies, walking to a patch of grass that’ll be perfect for a bit of sparring.

Wade joins him in the improvised training ground, swinging his sword in elaborate motions that make Peter roll his eyes in exasperation. They get into their preferred fighting stances, similar but for a few nuances, circling each other playfully, focusing all their senses on the other. Peter can hear Wade’s heart beating Witcher-slow in his chest, his deep breaths, the shift of the leather in his palm when he adjusts the grip of his sword ever so slightly in his hand. He deflects the first blow easily, the clash of steel against steel disturbing the quiet of the forest, and exploits the resulting opening it leaves in Wade’s guard to lunge, aiming for his adversary’s vulnerable shoulder. He doesn’t get a chance to make contact, as Wade leaps back unexpectedly fast and out of reach.

They settle back into defensive positions, both of their heartbeats just a tad quicker, a smile flitting on Peter’s lips. It is rare for a Witcher to find a worthy opponent, and Peter enjoys the challenge. He can see the pleasure reflected in Wade’s eyes, though it borders on manic.

He is the first to attack this time, and the confrontation lasts longer, their blows faster than the human eye could follow. The fight is even and amicable for a few minutes, each of them playing on their strengths and teasing the other. Peter could keep that up all night, and is ready to do so if it helps Wade unwind, but the Cat is getting more and more violent as time passes. Peter’s arms strain with the vibrations of the shocks between their blades, his teeth rattling with the strength of Wade’s heaviest blows.

The fight doesn’t feel playful and friendly anymore, a dark look glazing Wade’s eyes, his sword swiping too close to Peter’s vulnerable areas to his liking.

“Hey, Wade, come on, don’t be a dick,” he objects when one of the blows opens a bleeding gash on his side, where it would have pierced his liver if he hadn’t dodged in time.

But the other Witcher doesn’t respond to his words, lunging once again, this time aiming for Peter’s heart, a hungry look in his eyes as his nostrils flare at the scent of blood.

A strong Quen deflects the blow, sending golden sparks as the blade bounces on the shield, and Deadpool snarls in frustration, striking twice more before the sign wears out and Peter jumps and rolls in quick succession to put distance between the feral Cat and himself.

“Fuck, Deadpool, stop that! I’m not your enemy!” He shouts as his opponent attacks again, their blades sliding together with an unpleasant screech that rings in Peter’s ears. Wade’s saber is stopped by the hilt of Peter’s longsword, and the Wolf uses the opportunity to wrench the weapon from his hands. It goes flying and lands a few feet away in the dirt.

Peter holds his sword to Wade’s throat, breathing hard from the exertion. “Are you done?” he asks, lowering the blade and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Not quite” the Cat flashes him a sly grin before forming an Aard that throws an unsuspecting Peter to the ground, the breath punched from his lungs. He barely has time to suck some air before Wade is on him, the deadly tip of a throwing knife tickling the pulsing point in his throat.

Barely breathing, Peter holds his palms up in a placating gesture. "Okay, you won. You're lucky I'm not a Griffin, this kind of dishonourable attack is probably worth a beheading by their rules," he jokes faintly, watching as Wade's tongue peaks to wet his bottom lip in a hungry way, his pupils blown like those of a cat who caught it's prey and can't wait to play with it. The knife presses a little closer, breaking the skin in a thin line. The sting doesn't compare to the amount of pain Peter can take, but he whispers all the same, worried a louder sound will break whatever control Wade still has on his murderous intentions: "Wade, come on, you won. The fight is over."

His heart is beating infinitesimally faster, a change in rhythm human ears couldn't pick up on, but Deadpool notices it. The daze in his eyes fades away, finally seeing Peter's falsely calm face. They look at each other for a second before Deadpool lowers his gaze to the cut in Peter's skin, and the faster than normal pulse palpitating under it. His big hand leaves its place on the curve of Peter's neck, to flatten upon his chest, where his heart is pumping blood faster than normal.

"Did I scare you, little wolf?"

Relief and irritation fill Peter's voice when he replies; "I would really have reached a low point if I was scared of a Cat." It sounds weak, even to him. Wade's grin tells him his bluff didn't take.

"Then what got you all worked up? Do you like being manhandled like a maiden? Did I make you hard?"

Indignation swells in Peter's chest and he pushes against Wade's hold. "Fuck you, 'pool! If you'd played fair I'd have won!"

The Cat doesn't free him, instead throwing his knife to the side and using his knees to block Peter's arms.

"Do the monsters you kill play fair? I know Wolves are stuck up, righteous assholes, but if you expect life to be fair with mutants like us you won't last long on the Path."

"I survived just fine the last twenty years, I don't need you patronising me." Peter spits. The slow heartbeat makes it hard for Witchers to blush, but his face is burning with indignation and fury all the same. It’s so infuriating, how easy it is for Deadpool to snap the careful control Peter holds over his emotions. As if his own inhibition and hypersensitivity was contagious.

“Don’t be such a sore loser, pup” Deadpool coos. “Come on, give us a reward kiss.” he puckers his scarred lips and flutters his eyelashes in mock coquetry.

Peter turns his head to the side, receiving the wet, noisy kiss on his cheek. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he mumbles, mortified.

“You sound surprised. I thought you knew what you were getting into, maybe had some masochist impulses. Turns out you’re just fucking stupid.”

Fed up, Peter acts from impulse and brings his knee up, pressing menacingly against Wade’s groin but not hard enough to bruise the sensitive area. “You might want to be careful there, ‘pool.”

“Aw, Petey-pie, not the twins! That’s a low blow, even for me. I’m so proud of you!”

“Seems to me like you wouldn’t miss those,” Peter replies, increasing the pressure, an eyebrow raised insolently.

“You certainly would, though.”

“Oh, really? What makes you think that?”

Wade’s voice is a lower, more gravelly tone when he answers. “I’ve smelled your arousal almost every day since we met.”

“I could have been thinking about somebody else. It’s quite pretentious to think I’d be attracted to you.”

Deadpool pretends to think about it for half a second, before grinning in a predatory way. “Hm, yes, but you smell so _deliciously_ aroused right now. Are you thinking about somebody else?”

This time, Peter is definitely blushing. “So what, are you going to do something about it?”

Deadpool lets out a deep chuckle, lowering his head until his lips just barely brush Peter’s as he speaks.

“Are you as bossy in bed, little wolf, or are you all bark and no bite?”

In reply, Peter surges up and catches Wade’s lower lip between his teeth, biting and tugging harshly at the tender flesh. Deadpool’s pained gasp quickly turns into a moan of pleasure that Peter swallows eagerly.

They fuck hard and fast, only removing enough clothes to access their weeping cocks, Wade taking them both in hand and bringing them to climax in a breathy and sweaty mess. It burns out the unspent energy and the frustration more effectively than their sparring has, and when they are done Peter pushes a panting Wade off of him with a protesting groan and a disgusted frown at the sticky proof of their joint release staining his favourite shirt. He takes it off and throws it at Wade, who laughs and calls him picky.

They fall asleep with the fire between them, watching the stars and discussing the next step in their quest, the tension in Wade’s shoulder completely gone.

When Peter wakes up the next morning, Wade is already up and cooking their breakfast, and his shirt is clean and drying on a low branch.

*

It happens regularly after that night.

Not everyday, not even every week, they are still focused on their purpose, and sleeping outside is not always safe or comfortable enough to make having sex a regularity.

But some nights, one of them will drop a – rather unsubtle –hint, and the other will take the offer of a free fuck gladly. Peter knows this is far from the first instance of a Witcher taking another Witcher as lover. This is not even Peter’s first time sharing warmth with one of his peers. Affection is not easily found on the Path. Rare are the common folks who feel like fucking a mutant, and brothels are not cheap.

It also feels much safer to know Peter’s partner won’t get hurt in his arms if he lets go of the careful control he holds over his own strength in the company of humans.

In result, the sex is rather good. Wade is a creative and responsive bed partner, and doesn't take fucking like a serious affair. They laugh as often as they come, and Peter feels truly relaxed when they're done, panting and sweaty under the glinting stars, which is another reason why Peter doesn't let himself be tempted when they are in dangerous areas. It wouldn't do if they were to be attacked when his cock was still softening and his limbs felt like lead. At least the sounds and smells of their frantic coupling usually chase away the local fauna in a two miles radius.

They don't always wait for their camp to be set up before giving in to their desires. Once, as they refresh themselves and their horses in a cold stream, they end up rolling in the mud, two of Peter's fingers buried in Wade's frankly glorious ass. Later, Wade sucks him off, and they wash the come and sweat in the cold water, Princess and Evall judging them silently from the shore.

After a couple of weeks, Peter can't deny he feels lighter and happier than he has in decades. The company is good, the fucking even better, and sometimes he finds himself wishing his life stays that way, even when they’ll be done with their hunt.

When his mind strays in this direction, he can’t keep himself from trying to examine the feelings that have been building in his chest in the last few weeks. It is not easy, the training and mutagens that make a Witcher and help him keep control of his emotions getting in the way of his introspection, like sounds being muted in the fog.

Peter, as a rather young Witcher, has never been in love. He is not sure it is even possible, and it is certainly advised against. Even if humans were amenable to entertaining such bonds with mutants like him, they lead too different lives, and humans don't live half as long as Witchers do. There is no paragraph in the dozen of books young Witchers have to learn by heart in their youth that tells them about falling in love with another Witcher, but Peter guesses it is just as ill advised.

But it is not love, he tells himself. Merely an infatuation brought by the prospect of what his life could be if he hadn’t been shaped to kill monsters and walk the darkest places. Wade's constant flirting and their regular fucking does not help sorting his feelings out, so he pushes it to the back of his mind.

Thankfully, the hunt keeps them busy.

After the dead end with the pirate, none of them knows what to do, but for once the answer comes to them by itself, which should really have rang some bells in Peter's head.

A letter arrives one morning by way of a messenger bird. It is addressed to Peter, and is sealed with the Oxenfurt University sigil. It contains a short message asking him to come to the Redanian town at once for an urgent contract.

They’re not so far from Oxenfurt, and it’d be stupid to decline when they’re in dire need of money.

Peter leaves Wade in a small forest a few miles outside of the town. His reputation there won’t allow him to come in, and Peter would rather stay discrete. They don’t know where their target has their ears, and Deadpool’s bloody trail has not been subtle.

So Peter enters alone the academic city, home of the Continent’s greatest minds. He can admit to himself he loves the place, and more specifically the frankly enormous library it shelters, with its shelves heavy of thousands of books on every subject he could ever hope to read about. It doesn’t spoil anything that the worst reaction to his presence he’s ever faced here is academic fascination and clinical curiosity. 

He could even say he has _friends_ here, as much as a Witcher can pretend to have friends outside of his own brethren. Old academics who like to share knowledge with him, and a comedian he met when he was just starting on the Path and had a fling with. She’s in her forties now, and he doesn’t look a day older, except for all the scars he collected through the years. He knows she resents him for his youthful appearance when he comes to visit her, so he goes less and less often.

He doesn’t think about paying his friends a visit today though. He doesn’t like the idea of Wade waiting for him alone so close to a town who still has posters with “wanted” written in capital letters over an amateur rendition of his face glued to the walls. The other Witcher can handle himself, Peter knows, but that doesn’t make it less worrying. 

So he walks straight to the mayor’s house, without making detours. He’s already worked for the man a couple of times, and for his predecessor too. They always got along pretty well, and Peter has never walked out with less money than he had been promised.

The burly man welcomes him into his office with a distracted nod, and explains rumors of a big, reptilian figure haunting the sewers near the docks of the eastern shore have been slowing business there for more than a month, and the several groups of guards sent to investigate have either come back with no new information, or haven’t come back at all. Rumours like this one spread every few years in the city, and it’s not the first time Peter has been hired to investigate. The sewage system is an abandoned, drowner-filled labyrinth, and Peter suspects the ones who haven’t come back simply got lost or attacked. He’s a bit annoyed at having called for such a trivial matter, but now that he’s here, he agrees to give it a look, if only to appease the mayor’s mind and keep good terms with him.

Peter agrees to give it a look, and they agree on a price for the contract. The money won’t hurt, neither Wade or him having taken a job for a while, and it should be a quick one.

Making sure his horse is stabled and well taken care of, Peter heads for Oxenfurt’s main square, and after a look inside the well at the center of the place, jumps into the stinking dampness of Oxenfurt’s sewage system. 

Rats scurry away as he splashes in suspicious puddles. A Witcher encounters numerous unpleasant odors in his line of work, and he is used to the smell of rot and shit, but his sensitive senses still saturate with it. He doesn’t bring his hand to his nose, though. He needs it to be ready in case of attack. And he’s smelled worse, anyway. He just doesn’t think about it, and after a while, it fades.

His internal compass stirs him in the direction of the part of the sewage system that is just under the docks where the mayor said there had been trouble, and he doesn’t bother lighting the half-calcined torches hooked to the stained walls. With a dose of Cat potion in his system, he can see just as well in the dark.

Aside from a couple of drowners he quickly dispatches, the search is rather uneventful. Damp corridor after damp corridor, each junction similar to the other. It doesn’t seem far-fetched that humans would get lost in this labyrinth. Yet, he doesn’t find even one body, from the city guard or other.

He’s considering going up to the surface again, reassuring the mayor that nothing unusual hides underneath the city, when the smell hits him. It’s hard to identify at first, what with his senses being saturated with the stench of human waste and all, but it insinuates itself into his lungs like a mortal disease until he notices it: the cloying smell of medicinal herbs and ozone, pain and blood and vomit. It’s a familiar combination, even though Peter can’t quite replace where he’s smelled it before. It steers something in him, something vulnerable and unpleasant.

There’s no time for him to identify the smell, as before he can even pinpoint which direction it comes from, a faint sound behind him, like a light body touching the ground, raises his hackles.

There’s only one thing that can sneak up on a Witcher.

Peter jumps and rolls on the muddy ground, a squelching sound accompanying the blooming wetness in his trousers and gambeson. It gives him enough time to assess the newcomer's looks. The small hope that it’s Wade, catching up on him, vanishes as he takes in the inky black eyes and shock of blond hair. He does not immediately recognize the Witcher that stands before him due to the potions making his skin ivory pale and his eyes bottomless pits of darkness, but the Viper medallion and the self-satisfied smirk quickly set him right on track.

“Eddie” he breathes, allowing his shoulders to relax even though his neck still prickles. “Fuck, you surprised me.”

The other Witcher’s smile broadens, sharp teeth flashing in the dark of the sewers.

“A good Witcher never should let anything take him by surprise…”

“... or he’ll end up with a sword in his back,” Peter finishes the quote from one of the manuals every young Witcher used to learn by heart during their training. The two men stand a distance from each other for a tense second before Eddie speaks again.

“It’s good to see you again, wolfie.” Peter smiles and clasps the arm his old acquaintance offers him with warmth.

“You too, old snake. Didn’t know another Witcher was in the area. You on the sewage lizard contract too?”

“Yeah. Those are my favourite. I’ve had at least four of the kind since I started on the Path. It’s just a couple of drowners though. Haven’t met a giant lizard, though it’d be a nice change.”

Peter resents the town’s mayor for not having told him about the Viper already investigating the sewers, but he’s always happy to meet a Witcher he knows. Too many of them die on the Path without anyone knowing. It’s nice to know at least one of them is still healthy.

Though there is a paleness on Eddie’s skin, an almost wax-like quality to his face, that Peter can’t bring himself to blame on potions. He doesn’t ask, glancing from time to time in the direction of the man he wouldn’t really call a friend but is still a _brother_ , worry heavy in his gut. Witchers cannot fall sick, but they are still weak to men’s more insidious poisons. Peter has seen what damages fisstech or an abuse of spirits can do to a human body, and if they are less visible on a mutant’s constitution, they are no less dangerous.

He doesn’t mention it. He has no right to; every Witcher has his way to endure the cruelty of the Path. Peter is just happy that his is Wade’s companionship.

“Wanna split the reward?” Peter asks, and Eddie’s face splits in a wicked smile.

“You sure you can keep up, wolfie? You looked lost before I found you.”

“You’re the one who followed me around. How long have you been down there, waiting for someone to come looking for you?”

The Viper’s toothy grin is admittedly a bit unsettling, but Vipers are crazy bastards, not much better than Cats really, but the last month has taught Peter to accept other people’s… quirks, so he doesn’t comment on it.

They silently agree to follow the smell Peter scented earlier, continuing in the south west section of the sewage system, the one closer to the docks, and they walk in companionable silence, exchanging hushed banter and playful shoves as they make progress. Peter almost suggests going back and telling the mayor that whatever the drunk sailors and fishermen pretend to have heard or seen in the sewers, it’s gone now, when the faintest light coming from the end of a corridor catches his attention.

Human eyes wouldn’t have caught on the change in luminosity, as subtle as it is, but with the Cat potion still running in his veins, the slightest source of light becomes a flaring fire. The scent is stronger here too, and when he stops to listen, focusing his senses in that direction, he can hear movement.

It’s not the swarming and hissing noise of drowners looking for food, nor the sound of something big and scaly like a sewage monster. 

Signaling Eddie to move quietly, Peter approaches the end of the corridor on light feet. He can see the outline of one of the numerous rooms he’s been through since he came down here, but this time it is lit by torches fixed to the yellowed brick walls.

Something is clicking, like metal against glass, and, when he is almost at the turn that’ll bring him in the room, he finally hears it: a soft, scared moan. A child, dazed and almost certainly drugged.

His blood freezes in his veins, and Peter doesn’t even wait for Eddie before unsheathing his sword and stepping into the room.

It’s cleaner and drier than the rest of the sewers, and looks like it’s been restored from one of the numerous elven ruins Oxenfurt has been built upon. In the center of it, two tables arranged in a L shape are covered in alambics and alchemy equipment. Peter is good at alchemy, has always been interested in it ever since his class started learning how to brew potions in Kaer Morhen. Some of these devices are older than him, and there’s only one place he’s ever seen them at work: when he went down into the laboratory to be strapped to a surgery table, and live the most painful, horrible days of his life.

He almost thinks he is hallucinating when he takes in the boy tied to a similar table, whimpering weakly as mutations tear apart his body.

But the vision is too vivid, and when the shadowed figure hunched over the little body turns to meet his gaze, he knows all of this is too real. 

He’s never seen the man currently taking the pulse of the dying boy, but his unsettlingly perfect features and pretentious clothing screams Ban Ard mage. The sorcerer straightens up and turns to fully face Peter.

“Ah, so you finally deign to pay us a visit,” he says pleasantly, like Peter is an old acquaintance he’s been waiting for to share a glass of wine with. “I have to say, I expected your friend Deadpool to be here with us. He’s been so _enthusiastic_ in his search for us.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Peter replies through clenched teeth, his hand gripping the handle of his sword with such force the leather creaks in protest. The mage’s face seems to shift slightly under the light, and Peter can’t seem to look at it for too long. His gaze keeps slipping back to the teenage boy - he can’t be more than twelve - writhing on the table, his eyes closed in delirious agony. Sweat clings to his pale skin, pooling on the surface under him, mixing with the blood and bile Peter can smell from where he is.

“You’ll know my name soon enough, Witcher. My work is almost done, and once the mage’s council will have approved of it, I’ll be a famous man.”

Peter scoffs in disgust. “They won’t allow you to keep experimenting on children like that. No one will appraise you for what you’ve done.”

“Oh, really? It’s been so easy to find sponsors and supporters this far. The prospect of owning an army ten times more powerful than anyone else’s makes most kings and rulers really invested in my research. I don’t think even the mages of Ban Ard and Aretuza would mind the collateral damages once I present them with the results.”

“So that’s why you’re doing it? Money and fame? You couldn’t simply give your name to a new species of flower and be done with it?”

“Of course not, young Witcher. Money and fame are a bonus, of course, but I am not so vain.” The mage explains like it is all so obvious, and he is doing a favor explaining it to Peter. “I am a scientist first, and I have studied for decades before finding my true path. Yours is to kill monsters, and protect the weak. I am just the same.”

Peter would usually laugh at someone calling him “young” - he _is_ almost fifty years old, despite his forever youthful appearance, but mages are as deceiving as Witchers when it comes to age - more so, even, as they are capable of hiding any scar they might receive, when Witchers wear them as proof of their experience. The energy and power emanating from the sorcerer is strong and ancient, and he cannot rely on the handsome, youthful face to tell him much about his opponent. Only his eyes give some of his personality away, cold and calculating.

“We have nothing in common,” he snarls, a chill creeping on his spine as the sorcerer takes a few steps towards him, his hands clasped behind his back and a pleasant smile plastered on his shifting face. It hurts to look at him for too long, like watching something that is both too close and too far away at the same time. “You are butchering innocent children to turn them into something the world doesn’t want. Even if you succeed in making Witchers again, no one will thank you for it.”

“I am not making new Witchers. I am making something _more_. My creations will be strong, fast, powerful, and so different from humans that they won’t be mistaken for them. Humanity doesn’t like what looks like it yet is different. What I am doing is building a new species that will protect us from the other world’s threats. A new Conjunction of the Spheres, with all the monsters and creatures of the dark it could bring, is imminent, and we have no defense against it. Men shouldn’t have persecuted and killed Witchers, but they did, leaving the Continent defenseless. I will make us strong again.”

“Then you should tell that to the kings who are planning to buy your creations so they can go to war against each other. I don’t think they care about otherworldly threats, be they real or imagined.”

The mage shrugs, like this is only a minor inconvenience.

“I need money and support for my research. If I have to sell a few of my creations, then so be it.”

The way he talks about the human beings he tortures in the name of science makes Peter want to tear his throat with his own teeth. If Deadpool were here, he knows he couldn’t have kept him from doing just that. But he wishes Wade was with him, if only so he wouldn’t feel so scared. Mages are hard to take down in a fight, even for a Witcher, and Peter feels weirdly weak and imbalanced. He knows he’s not been drugged or bespelled, or his medallion would be thrumming, but facing such a realistic version of his own personal nightmares is deeply disturbing.“This stops now. I’ll bring you to Ban Ard for them to decide what to do with you.”

The mage gives a slightly disappointed look, though it is hard to read his expressions through the spell that covers his face. “Oh, no, I don’t think you will. You see, this one is giving me my best results so far,” he says, gesturing to the now worryingly silent boy. “But I am not yet ready to show my work to the world.”

“You’re no match against two Witchers. You come with us to face justice or you die here.”

“Two Witchers? I only see one here, my dear.”

Peter senses movement behind him and whips around just in time to parry a blow with his sword. It’s sloppy, surprised as he is by the attack, and he struggles to hold the stance as Eddie pushes against him, his eyes wild and his mouth stretching on a horrid grin filled with sharp, sharp teeth.

“What did he do to you?” Peter whispers as he tries to find a sign of the Witcher he used to know in the crazed eyes looking at him like he is _prey_.

“He made me _more_ ,” the mutant hisses with an edge of insane glee in his voice, a puff of foul breath caressing Peter’s face from how close their faces are.

Eddie gives a sudden push with such force that Peter stumbles back, unbalanced, and before he can form Aard with his free hand, a sword slices through his side where the gambeson doesn’t cover him as well. It’s a deep wound, painful, but not deadly. He clutches at it, and brings his sword to parry the next blow, when invisible bounds wrap around his arms and chest, restraining him and bringing him to his knees. From where he is, he cannot see the mage or the boy, and only hears the telltale sound of a portal opening, a smell of ozone and saltwater filling the room.

“Let’s go,” he hears the mage’s suave voice order.

“I want to kill him,” Eddie replies, his eyes not leaving Peter’s face. “I want to cut his pretty head off for Deadpool to find.”

“No. We’d get the Wolves to seek us for revenge too if you did. That’s enough. Come here.”

Eddie snarls at him, his teeth clacking like he wants to chop Peter’s head off in a bite, but obeys his orders and walks around him, joining the mage near the portal.

“I’ll see you again, Witcher. It’s unavoidable. I hope you’ll have understood my motives by then.”

The portal closes in a _whoosh_ , and with it the binds restraining Peter disappear all at once. He hunches forward, folding over his wounded side, heavy and hazy like he’s in one of his nightmares, except this time the agonising sound doesn’t come from him. He freezes and turns around slowly, gazing with fear towards the center of the room.

Still strapped on the table, the boy is shivering weakly. Peter stands up and approaches him warily. With one of his knives, he cuts the leather straps binding him, then cups the boy’s face with one blood-covered hand, smearing a pale, clammy cheek with red. The boy is unconscious, and Peter can hear his heartbeat slowing with each breath, barely a flutter now.

He is powerless as he witnesses the life leaving the tiny body in his arms, and before the boy gives his last breath, his eyes open just enough for Peter to see golden irises looking back at him.

*

Wade finds him what feels like days later but can’t have been more than a few hours, clutching the little body gone rigid. His wound stopped actively bleeding after a while, but he hasn’t bothered taking a potion to help with the healing. He’s numb, and it has little to do with blood loss.

He doesn’t notice Wade entering the room at first, but the Cat rushes to his side and cradles his face in slightly shaking hands, tilting it upwards. Peter’s eyes are heavy, his vision bleary, but Deadpool breathes out in relief when he meets them. He sprawls on his backside with a huff.

“Fuck, little wolf. Don't scare me like that.”

Peter doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even know what to say, the words all locked up somewhere far away, and he’s too tired to look for them.

“You alright? That’s a lot of blood.”

Only then does Deadpool seem to notice the dead body in Peter’s lap. He tenses, and rises to his knees, slowly approaching Peter again like he’s going to spook him.

“Who’s that? Peter?”

Peter opens his mouth, but the words are still not cooperating, and instead he tightens his embrace one last time on the nameless boy before letting Wade turn the body over to peer at his face.

A gasp and a curse escape the Cat in turn as he catches the gold in the dead eyes, and jumps away like it burned him.

“Fuck, Peter, what the fuck happened?”

The young Witcher tries his best to shake the apathy, bringing movement back to his stiff muscles, grimacing as it jostles his side. The fog in his brain clears a little, and he finds his voice again. It grates his own ears, rough and croaky as it is.

“The mage… the mage was here.”

Wade stills, looking at him like he’s not sure he’s heard the right thing.

“Which mage?”

Peter rises, lowering the body to the floor. They don’t even know who he is. If he even has family looking for him, or if he’s one of those hundreds of orphans who have nothing in their lives except themselves.

“Which mage, Peter?” Wade shouts, and Peter has never heard such rage in his voice, not directed at him. It’s stupid, he thinks. They haven’t known each other for so long. Of course he doesn’t know all of Wade yet, even if it feels like it sometimes.

“The mage. He found the formula. He said he didn’t need to stay here anymore.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“What, you think I didn’t try?” Peter replies. He’s not even angry at the accusation, just tired. “He had another Witcher with him. Eddie. A Viper. I used to know him. But he’s changed, he did something to him, Wade. I couldn’t… I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You should have let me come with you! He wouldn’t have escaped if I’d been there. I’d have ripped his fucking face before he could have done anything.”

“Yeah, well I couldn’t really bring you to Oxenfurt, could I?” Peter retorts, fed up. “You’re wanted all over the fucking Continent. What good would it have done if you’d been arrested on our way here?”

Wade obviously doesn’t know what to reply to that, and instead lets his rage out by punching the closest wall, the ancient stone crumbling easily under his clenched fist. A blast of Aard sends the alchemy tables flying across the room, alambics and vials shattering on the ground.

“I should never have let you come with me!” Wade roars once he doesn’t have any other outlet to his anger. “I should have killed you as soon as you started following me like a lost puppy!”

A human’s heart would have broken at these words. Shattered like the glass shards glistening in the low light of the torches. But Peter is a Witcher, and Witchers don’t feel, they say. Instead of breaking, his heart hardens, like a lump of coal, and he adds this pain to all the ones that came before, and doesn’t think about it. There’s no point.

He schools his face into an impassive mask that has nothing to envy to Wade’s leather one, and limps towards the corridor that brought them here.

“It’ll be winter soon. I’m going back to Kaer Morhen. We can’t fight this monster alone. The other Witchers will help. Come with me or don’t, but if we split now, you’ll be just another contract. I won’t take it, but another will. It’s your choice.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, doesn’t even look back. Wade will make his own decisions. Peter is tired. He wants to go home.

*

Wade meets him back at the camp they left their horses at. The pay for the job is ridiculous, as there was no actual monster. It’s barely enough to cover for the supplies he bought in the city market that’ll last him for the trip to Kaer Morhen.

They don’t talk that day, and Peter tends to his own wound while Wade goes to hunt something for dinner. The Wolf Witcher is reminded of the day they first had sex, but the tension between them is not the same. It’s a broken thing, one that pushes them apart instead of pulling them together.

For the following days they wrap up their camp at dawn every morning and follow the Pontar east until it forks in Murivel. There, Peter stops at the town mage’s shop to send a letter ahead of them. He wouldn’t need to warn Tony of his arrival any other time, but bringing Wade with him is a delicate affair. Wolves generally don’t get along with Cats due to their ethics, or lack thereof, and bringing one unannounced would be unnecessary trouble.

He mentions that they need to discuss urgent matters too, but stays vague in his meaning. They can’t afford to divulge the little information they have and risk the mage overpowering them once more.

They reach Ard Carraigh as the first snows start to fall. Wade hasn’t uttered more than a few words since they left Oxenfurt, and as used as Peter is to the silence of the Path, it weighs heavy on his shoulders. He misses his friend’s nonsensical babbling.

Wade is nothing like the cheeky, chatty man he got to know and appreciate anymore. The spark of instability that usually swims in his eyes has acquired an edge of danger that sends Peter’s senses awry. It brings him back to the first few nights of their acquaintance, when he still expected a knife to bury itself in his back should he lower his guard.

The trek up the Blue Mountains to Kaer Morhen is one that can’t be accomplished without knowing the path by heart, lest you fall to an untimely death. Peter does, memories of running it with his brethren to develop their agility and endurance as a part of their training haunting every step he takes on the trail they’d accurately nicknamed the Killer. It meets and follows the Gwenllech in several different parts, and added to the cold winds whistling between sharp rocks and the mountains hiding the sun for most of the day, the humidity of its freezing water guarantees a journey as damp as uncomfortable. 

Peter’s already foul mood reaches new lows as they ascend slowly, leading their horses through narrow passes and wolves infested patches of woods. It takes three days to reach the Witcher keep in optimal conditions, and his wound is still bothering him. They haven’t eaten enough in too long, having to avoid towns as posters offering rewards for Deadpool’s head multiply. Game is scarce at this time of year, and the earth doesn’t provide enough wild berries and vegetables to keep their stomachs full.

They sleep on hard, frozen grounds for four nights, without as much as a fire to warm them. The Witchers wintering at Kaer Morhen usually keep themselves busy by ridding the mountains of any monster foolish enough to choose it as its territory, but after a whole year without maintenance, the woods are brimming with them. The two Witchers don’t want to attract any unwelcome company.

Their horses provide them with enough warmth that they don’t freeze in their sleep, but they have to huddle closer every night, as mortifying as it is in their current situation. Wade’s back is tense against his when they fall asleep turned away from each other, their bedrolls and all the furs they could find in their bags piled over them. Their bodies must not have tuned in to this new situation yet, because they still unconsciously seek each other in the night, waking up with their limbs tangled in the morning. It’s always awkward and at least a bit painful when they awake. Peter ignores the twinge of his chest whenever Wade pushes him from the warmth of his embrace and lets the cold air enter their makeshift nest.

He’s still mad at the Cat for his accusations, but mainly he’s mad at himself. He keeps replaying the whole scene in the laboratory in his head, counting every moment he could have done something that would have actually helped. It’s useless, he knows that. He can’t change what happened. But Eddie’s sickly black eyes and the boy’s glassy golden ones won’t leave him, and Wade’s silence doesn’t help him distract himself from those thoughts.

The snow really settles on the day before they reach Kaer Morhen. Strong gusts of wind blow heavy white snowflakes in their necks, freezing their cheeks and noses. It makes it harder for the horses to navigate the narrow path, and the already treacherous ground becomes almost impossible to tread safely. 

As the sun hides behind the mountains, plunging the whole valley in cold shadows, they round a turn in the Path that reveals the crumbling Keep of the Wolf School. Peter’s heart clenches with both relief to be home, and dread of what’s waiting for him there. Every year can be one where they’ve lost another one among their ranks, but they rarely know it before coming back to the Keep.

There’s also the apprehension of his brothers’ reaction to him bringing back a Witcher who so blatantly betrayed their values. There are not a lot of Wolf Witchers left, but Witchers from other schools also come wintering at Kaer Morhen, and most of them resent Cats for being one of the reasons their trade is so antagonised by the whole Continent.

So when they reach the Keep’s gate and the lattice opens to reveal Tony, striding confidently across the courtyard to come and greet him with a crushing embrace, Peter has a tiny breakdown. Wade is, for once, quietly waiting behind him, the bridles of both their horses in his hand.

“You’re early, kid. Missed me that bad, huh?” Tony teases as he lets Peter breathe and clasps his forearms instead, taking him in, checking him for injuries or new scars as he does every winter.

“Yeah, I missed this crumbling mess. And the castle too.”

He is cuffed behind the head for his joke, and the feeling of _home_ fills him so completely he is not scared anymore when Tony looks behind him and spots Wade. The old Wolf’s face doesn’t betray any of his thoughts, and Peter turns to see Wade looking right back at them, a relaxed expression and cheeky smile plastered on his scarred face but the rest of his body tense and ready to stand its ground in the case of a sudden attack.

But Tony doesn’t jump or snarl or growl at him in the territorial way Wolves can sometimes react. He just sighs, slides his arm behind Peter’s shoulders, and guides him inside the Keep’s walls.

“Well, this is going to be a great conversation. I can’t wait to see Cap’s reaction.”

*

Cap is Tony’s nickname for Steve, the Griffin Witcher who spends almost as much time in Kaer Morhen as the old Wolf these days. He’d started wintering there when Kaer Seren, his School’s fortress, was attacked and damaged by mages jealous of the Griffins’ magic knowledge, but after reaching close to a hundred and fifty years old, he’d decided to help Tony in maintaining the crumbling ruin of Kaer Morhen enough for it to stay standing.

Honestly, Peter had been quite surprised when he’d learned Steve and Tony got along enough to spend half of the year together. The two men always bicker for the smallest disagreement, and Peter had always thought they hated each other. Tony is the only one who dares to call Steve “Captain” to his face because of his… authoritative tendencies. Griffins are one of the oldest Schools of Witchers, and stuck to the old-fashioned ways and knightly values of the first Order, and Steve is not an exception. Which is one of Tony’s greatest sources of amusement, but also the reason they get into fights so often.

Tony had been the one to bring Peter to Kaer Morhen, after tying their fates together. Peter’s parents had died and he’d been sent to live with his aunt, while his uncle was away fighting in another man’s war. A Witcher had saved him from a bunch of ghouls feasting on the corpses left by the massacre, and having no coin to pay for his services, Peter’s uncle had offered the Law of Surprise: he’d give his saviour what he had but didn’t know he had. When he’d arrived home, the first thing he’d seen when crossing his threshold was his wife holding a bubbling toddler. A few years later, the Witcher had come to claim his prize, and Peter had been placed on Tony’s horse to become one of the Wolf School’s young trainees. He’d cried at being separated from his aunt and uncle, who had taken care of him as their own son, but Destiny can’t be denied. They’d parted ways, heartbroken. He’d never seen them again. He’d passed through their village a few years after his start on the Path, but he had not found the bravery to follow the muddy trail that he knew led to their little house. They’re probably dead now, he thinks.

Tony had taken care of him until they’d arrived at Kaer Morhen, and now Peter thinks he might have felt guilty of tearing a child from their family. At the time, Peter had hated him passionately. He’d hated the castle, and the training, and the other trainees. It passed, eventually, when he stopped hoping he’d go home one day. He didn’t make a lot of friends among the other trainees, and none of them lived past the Trial of the Grasses anyway. But he found a purpose in the Path, and his resentment had dwindled with age. He and Tony now get along great, their love for science and alchemy an endless source of bonding.

But since Steve has joined them, he’s sort of taken the role of leader, which clashes occasionally with Tony’s own ego. Peter tries to stay out of their arguments as much as possible, as do the others when they’re here.

Tonight, he has no choice but to be at the center of the storm. He helps Wade settle the horses in the stables while Tony heads back inside, and he asks without much hope that the Cat lets him speak to Steve. The Griffin has strong values, but he listens to logic, and Peter knows he’ll help them if they explain the reason for their presence. Somehow, he’s not sure Wade’s provoking nature will be very helpful for this particular conversation and a glimmer of mischief in the Cat’s eyes tells him he’s right to be worried.

They barely even have the time to pass the high double doors and to drop their bags on the cold stone ground before Steve is striding towards them purposefully, the scabbard of his steel sword in one hand, the other wrapped around the worn leather grip. Peter moves to put himself between the Cat and the seething Griffin, but he does not unsheathe his own sword. It wouldn’t help in any case.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Steve asks Peter, assuming a defensive stance, as if he’ll keep them from entering further into the castle Peter spent most of his grisly childhood in. “Peter, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Before Peter can open his mouth to explain himself, Wade has walked around him and is extending his hand towards Steve with his biggest shit-eating grin.

“Hi, I’m Wade. Most people call me Deadpool.”

The way Steve’s eyes look like they’re going to bulge out of his head would almost be funny if Peter wasn’t scared he’s going to run Wade through with his blade. He shoulders Wade out of the way, raising a placating hand in Steve’s direction.

“Please Steve, we need to talk.”

“What we need to do is bring this criminal to the closest authorities. He’s killed dozens of people, Peter.”

“It’s not what you think, please, listen to us!”

“You mean to say he hasn’t killed dozens of people?”

“No, that’s not… It’s… complicated” Peter concedes. It’s not what he should say, he knows, but he’s never been good at explaining things, and Steve is a charismatic man. It’s hard to look him in the eyes when he has his disappointed face on. 

Peter gives Tony, who’s been watching the scene with the delighted look of someone who feeds off of drama, a pleading look. 

The old Wolf rolls his eyes, but steps in between Steve and Peter.“Come on, Cap, Peter is a reasonable boy. He certainly has good reasons to bring Deadpool here. Let’s hear him.”

A silent conversation passes between the two older Witchers as they look at each other, and it must work in Peter’s favour, because Steve seems to deflate, and lowers his sword reluctantly. He nods towards Peter with a deadly serious expression on his face.

“Meet us in the hall when you’ve warmed a little. Don’t make us wait.” His last gaze is directed towards Wade, who’s mock-salute is interrupted by Peter elbowing him in the ribs.

Peters leads his friend through the drafty corridors of what remains of Kaer Morhen. When he still lived there, Peter used to sleep in a dormitory with the other trainees, but that aisle had been destroyed in the attacks against their school. The Witchers who spend most of their winters here have all claimed individual rooms in the old teachers quarters, and most of the reluctance Peter used to feel at the idea of sleeping in a dead man’s bed had ebbed away with the years.

He’s weirdly shy as he opens the door and lets Wade take in the sight of his quaint room. It’s filled with books and trinquets he brings back from the Path every year. This is the only place Peter can call _his_ , the only home he’ll ever know. Showing it to Wade makes him feel oddly vulnerable.

But Wade doesn’t comment, only gives the room a sweeping look before stepping in and dropping his packs on the neatly made bed. His silence is unsettling, and Peter doesn’t like it. He should be making a joke about the old fairy tale book gathering dust besides the bed or rummaging through Peter’s stuff without shame, but he’s just crouching to light a fire in the little hearth without sparing a glance for his friend. The line of his shoulders is tense and he hasn’t even unbuckled his armour, even though Peter knows it must be as uncomfortably damp as his. It hits Peter in the face all at once: Deadpool doesn’t think he’s going to be allowed to stay. He’s prepared to be thrown back outside, or worse.

“They’ll help us,” Peter promises. “They’re good men. Good Witchers. When they’ll know why we’re here they’ll help us.”

“They don’t need me for that. You don’t need me. They seem pretty decided to claim the reward on my head. The money might even help to stop the mage, if you hire mercenaries to help. Three Witchers won’t be enough, if what you told me about him is right.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Peter deadpans. “We’ll stop him together. I won’t let them hurt you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Wade almost snarls. From where he is, Peter can see the darkness in his eyes, the same that’s been lurking in it for the past month. But he’s too angry to be scared by it.

“Really? You really have to ask?” 

And he doesn’t want to talk about them, about the thing that’s been building between them since the day they met, because giving voice to it might be what breaks the whole thing, but it makes him so angry to imagine that he’s been the only one thinking they were something special. He doesn’t care if the sex was only a bit of fun for Wade - it hurts but he doesn’t care, what’s really infuriating is that maybe he’s been the only one to think that their relationship stretched further than their partnership to stop the mage.

Wade gives him a surprised look at the heat of his words, but shrugs and looks away again.

“I’m not a good Witcher. I know it, I know you know it. If I was arrested it would be easier for all of you, wouldn’t it? More contracts for everyone, and one last stain on your reputation. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

The self-loathing in Wade’s voice softens Peter’s rage, and he sags a little.

“Yeah, I did. I did at first. But not in a long time now. You’re my friend, Wade. I don’t agree with everything you’ve done, but I think you’re a good man. I don’t want to be rid of you. And you’re not getting rid of me.” He punctuates his confession by offering his arm to Wade and pulling him up so they’re face to face. He has the strongest urge to kiss him, but that would say too much about his feelings. They’ve never kissed without anything sexual following, and this is not the moment for a tryst beneath the sheets. They’re cold, wet, and two angry Witchers are waiting for them one floor below. But he clasps their forearms together, his gaze firmly locked with Wade’s, and he sees the moment his friend decides to believe him.

The spark of mischief and joyfulness reappears in his amber eyes, and he tugs Peter in a tight hug.“I knew you loved me, little wolf. It’s my sparkling personality, you’re not the first to fall for the great Deadpool.”

Peter laughs and elbows him in the ribs to hide how true those words ring, and they part to shed their damp clothes. All of their packs have been soaked by the snow, so they hang what’s salvageable on every surface available, and Peter digs two of his old, dusty shirts and a couple of trousers he uses as sleepwear when he’s here and they slip them on with relieved groans as the rough fabric warms their skin. His clothes are too tight on Wade, the Cat visibly broader than him, and Peter tries not to linger on how the shirt stretches over his chest and biceps. He can’t allow himself to be distracted when they have such a crucial conversation waiting for them.

*

Steve and Tony are gathered around the long wooden table in the grand hall, the heart of the castle, where Peter remembers taking all his meals with the other trainees before he took off for the Path. It holds as many good memories as painful ones.

The two Witchers watch them approach, and Peter is grateful to notice Steve’s sword is nowhere to be seen. He asked Wade to leave his in the room, which wasn’t easy to bargain, but he knows Steve won’t attack a weapon-less man. In their linen shirts and trousers that couldn’t hide a weapon if they tried, Wade and Peter are as unthreatening as a Witcher can be. He hopes it’s enough to convince the two older Witchers of their honesty.

Tony slides a mug of ale across the table and Peter catches it as he sits on the opposite bench. Steve is sitting at the end of the table, in his usual chair, and waits for Peter to speak with arms crossed over his broad chest. 

Peter takes an inhale, ready for a long and exhausting argument, but to everyone’s surprise, Wade is the first to break the silence, before he even sits next to Peter.

“There’s a man creating a new generation of Witchers. He’s already left a hundred childrens’ corpses behind for his experiments and he has used at least two Witchers as test subjects, one of which is most certainly dead. He’s almost there. Soon he will have an army of mutants, and I don’t think he’s planning to use them as decoration.”

This seems to stun Steve and Tony into silence, and Peter takes the opportunity to add his own part. “The men Wade killed were all linked to this mage. They all helped him in some ways, they were all terrible people. Since we met, he hasn’t killed anyone. This is the deal. We join forces to stop this mage, but we do it the right way.” 

He’s risen from his seat a little, carried away by his tirade, and feels a little foolish when three pairs of eyes stare at him when he stops to take a breath.

“So, hum. Yeah. I don’t agree with Wade’s… style, but without him I don’t think we’d have realized what was going on before it was too late.” He sits back in his chair with a puff of breath, hoping this was enough.

Steve stays silent for a while, his arms still crossed but his expression thoughtful as he thinks over what Peter just said. “What you’re telling us, if it’s true, is very concerning. I’ve heard about weird incidents involving Witchers these last few years, but I never thought this could be something like that,” he finally says.

“It is. True, I mean. I saw him. The mage. I saw what he was doing, I saw what he did to the kids. It’s… it’s worse than the Trials.” Peter ends with a raspy voice, his eyes glued to his hands on the table, unseeing, as he remembers another golden, glassy pair of eyes. When the silence stretches for too long, he raises his gaze, and sees grief on the faces of his elders. They’ve all been through the Trials. They’ve all lost friends in it. This is a pain all Witchers share, no matter their School.

“You should have come to us as soon as you heard about it,” Tony speaks after a while.

“I know,” Peter says with a lump in his throat. “I thought we’d be enough, the two of us.” He’d also liked that it was only Wade and him. His selfishness had cost an innocent’s life, if not more.

“He has at least another Witcher with him,” Wade intervenes when Peter doesn’t continue. “A Viper. He’s been… changed. The mage did something to him.”

Peter nods. “He’s… wrong, now. I used to know him. He wasn’t like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s been through the Trials again. Like there’s nothing human in him anymore. And I think… I think that’s what the mage wants to do. Not Witchers. Something else. Something truly wrong.”

Again, the silence stretches between them. Peter sees the same disgust and fear he’s felt passing on his friends faces. Finally, Steve speaks again.

“You are right to have come to us. We can’t let that happen. Not again.” He looks at Tony. “We’ll need as much help as we can. How many will answer?”

The old Wolf shrugs. “Thor said he’d come this winter. He’ll probably want to join. I don’t know for Bruce though. It’s hard to contact him these days.”

Steve nods gravely. “Try your best. I know a few Vipers who might want to avenge their brother. It’ll have to do. We can’t ask for human help. We don’t know who might be involved.”

Peter lets out a sigh of relief. The side of Wade’s arm presses against his in comfort, and he wishes they were already back to his room, snuggling under the blankets. The exhaustion of the trek up the mountain and the rush of adrenaline that followed their arrival are catching up to him. It’s not finished yet, though, and Steve turns back to them.

“The fact that you are a murderer is not forgotten, Deadpool. This is a truce, not forgiveness.”

Wade tenses next to Peter.“I don’t regret what I did,” he says, and Peter kicks him in the shin, but he doesn’t react. “Those people deserved what happened to them. But I want this mage dead more than anything. I need you for that. You need me too. Once it is done, we can go back to hating each other, you can try and have me hung, I don’t care. I won’t even fight. I just want this asshole’s blood on my blade.”

Steve's assessing gaze doesn’t leave Wade as he nods, lips pinched together. Even Tony has a serious look about him Peter’s only seen him harbour a couple of times in his long life.

“In that case, you are allowed to stay until we have more information. We’ll need every Witcher available,” Steve declares.

At that, Tony intervenes. “Don’t act like you own the place, Cap. This is not Stygga Castle, don’t forget. I get to say if psycho killer here can stay.”

A vein twitches on Steve’s temple, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, but allows patiently. “Very well. Tony, what do you think we should do?”

Tony looks at Wade for a moment, and Peter knows he’s already made his decision. “Yeah, he can stay. But he’s your responsibility, Peter. I don’t want him peeing all over the furniture.”

“Don’t worry, old man,” Wade says with a wide grin. “I’ve been well-trained. He even puts me on a leash sometimes.”

Witcher grace forgotten, Peter chokes on air and coughs as he crushes Wade’s foot under his heel. The wince on the Cat’s face is a small revenge, and Peter turns beet red at Steve’s shocked expression and Tony’s less surprised, though very disapproving one.

“Well I’ll huh… I’ll show Wade around,” he splutters, and almost crashes on the bench in his haste to flee the room. Wade follows, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and Peter thinks about bringing him right up to his room and punishing him, but still something doesn’t feel right about sharing this kind of intimacy with Wade after everything.

Maybe it has to do with the two pairs of Witcher ears that will definitely pick up on what they’re doing. Yeah, it’s definitely that.

*

A week passes before the first of the summoned Witchers arrives. It’s Thor, a Bear Witcher older than any Peter has ever met. Yet, he doesn’t look older than forty. 

Peter likes Thor, he’s a fun guy, a little old school, but not in the same way as Steve. He always comes back from the Path with the best stories, and the best alcohol. He claps Peter on the back with bruising strength, and his booming laugh fills the crumbling Keep with warmth more surely than the large fireplace ever does . 

The second one to arrive is Bruce, despite Tony’s concerns. He’s one of the Wolf Witchers who weren’t there during the attack of Kaer Morhen, and Peter, Tony and him are the last ones still alive. It’s been harder for him, somehow, to lose everything, his friends and his home, and to not having been here to defend it. He doesn’t come back to Kaer Morhen often because of it. Peter doesn’t know him very well, but he’s one of Tony’s dearest friends, and a brilliant mind too.

When they sit at the long table in the hall after dinner the night of his arrival, mugs of mulled cider warming their hands and hearts, he says quietly “We can’t bring back the ones we lost, but we can make sure nothing like that ever happens again”, and everyone nods, grief heavy on their shoulders even after all these years. 

Wade doesn’t adapt gracefully to living with other Witchers. They all view him as a threat or an error of nature. Peter is used to being treated that way by humans, but the idea that _other Witchers_ would see him as such too is unconceivable. Wade’s coping mechanism apparently consists mostly in spending his time locked in their shared room or out in the snowed in forest when the weather allows it.

Before Thor and Bruce arrive, Peter lets him do as he pleases. They both need rest, after all, and he can’t resent Wade for wanting to stay away from hateful glares, especially when the Cat can’t seem to keep himself from provoking the others as soon as they are in the same room. Peter knows Tony enjoys bantering, but there’s a viciousness to Wade’s words whenever they argue that Peter doesn’t like to hear.

So the day after Bruce has joined them, Peter snaps and brings Wade with him to the hot pools that hide underneath Kaer Morhen, in the entrails of the mountain. The hallway that leads to the steamy, low-ceiling room is a long one, and the walls are thick, carved in the stone of the mountain. Not even Witcher ears could hear them here, and Peter let slip at breakfast that he’d show the baths to Wade today, so they shouldn’t be interrupted.

“Are you bringing me to your Red Room, Petey?” Wade asks cheerfully as he is dragged down the dark corridor. “I didn’t peg you as a BDSM lover, but I’m not complaining. I have to warn you I’m a brat though.”

“What?”

“I am not in the habit of following strangers in dark places,” Wade says in a high voice, completely ignoring Peter’s question. His nonsense ceases when they reach the underground cave, and he gasps. “Petey! Are you trying to tell me I stink? So rude!”

Peter sighs and pushes him in the room with a shove to his shoulder. He’d have a hard time moving Wade against his will, so the Cat might not hate the idea of a bath as much as he pretends.

They stay in the hot pools for most of the afternoon, alternating between dozing in the bone-melting heat of the water and play-fighting like school kids. It does wonders for Peter’s tense muscles, and he can see Wade is the most relaxed he’s ever seen him outside of his post-orgasm haze. 

There is still a fight to be fought, and the other Witchers’ hate towards Wade still permeates the walls of the castle, but right now, they are just two friends trying to forget all about the outside world. Which is why, when Wade pulls him onto his lap during one of their wrestling duels, Peter doesn’t resist as much as he should. Later, he’ll blame it on his relaxed state, but in the heat of the moment, it seems like a good idea to straddle the man’s waist where he’s sitting on the carved bench running along the pool’s edge and to give his all to a deep, demanding kiss.

Wade’s already hard prick bobs in the water, brushing Peter’s stomach in lazy motions, and that gets him ready too in record time. The Wolf Witcher ruts against the other man’s firm abs, trapping both their cocks between them. They pant in each other’s mouth hotly, the frustration and need of almost a month without release rushing all at once to the surface, leaving them frantic and wanting.

Rutting like animals only suits them for so long, and when Wade gets tired of sitting still with not enough stimulation, he heaves Peter out of the water and lies him down on the damp stone floor at the edge of the pool. It’s not comfortable in the slightest, but Peter couldn’t care less when he feels Wade’s tongue at his entrance, sweeping the flat of his tongue from his hole to his balls before teasing at his rim, nipping the sensitive skin and dipping the tip of his tongue inside.

It doesn’t take long for Peter to be writhing and moaning, his hips secured by Wade’s large hands, the fire crawling up his spine stoked hotter and stronger by every lick and graze of teeth. He’s not one to beg, but his breaths take the shape of pleas faster than he’d like to admit.

They have no oil, nothing to ease the way. Peter didn’t plan for things to end up that way, at least not consciously, and didn’t bring anything else than his change of clothes. But he’s so worked up, so wanting, that he doesn’t mind the burn when Wade opens him with his tongue and spit-slick fingers. He pushes back to take them deeper, and Wade chuckles lowly with a hot breath puffing on Peter’s hole. The sensation has him whining, and he swats at Wade’s hands before he rolls up and back into the pool, straddling the Cat’s lap again.

“So impatient, little wolf,” Wade croons with a lust-dazed grin.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, and sinks on Wade’s rather large prick. They both groan at the too-tight fit, and Wade tries to slow Peter by gripping his sides bruisingly, but Peter doesn’t pay him attention. He has only one goal, one thought overpowering his lust-crazed mind: he has to feel Wade deep in him, right now.

They struggle for a few minutes, the water lapping at their burning skin, their grip on each other slippery but the penetration almost impossible. They can barely move without Wade’s prick slipping out, and the burn is becoming uncomfortable rather than arousing.

It’s Wade who puts a stop to Peter’s single minded fussing as he braces an arm on the edge of the pool and pushes up, rising so he’s standing in the water, Peter’s legs wrapped around his waist. Like this, Peter is completely out of the water, and he shivers as cold air touches his burning, wet skin.One of Wade’s hands is supporting Peter, splayed and kneading at his ass, while he brings the other to Peter’s mouth.

“Suck like the good little slut you are,” he breathes, pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost completely black. 

Peter huffs at the dirty talk and bites harshly as two fingers find their way inside his mouth. Wade hisses in pain but leaves his fingers inside as Peter coats them in saliva without breaking eye contact. He feels a little pride when Wade’s prick jumps and seems to get impossibly harder against the cleft of his ass.

When Wade deems Peter has done a sufficient job, he slips his fingers out, replacing them with his tongue, fucking his mouth as thoroughly as Peter wishes he was fucking his ass right now.

The two fingers find their way into his hole again, spit barely slicking the way enough, but when Wade’s cock replaces them, he finally, blissfully, slides inside. Their position means Peter is speared by Wade’s prick quite fast and deeply. He keens and throws his head back at the sensation of being full at last. Wade bites at his bare throat, growling as his hips snap shallowly, hands spreading Peter’s ass, the tips of his fingers brushing where he’s buried deep in it.

Peter doesn’t last long, worked up as he is. All it takes for him to come is a few deep thrusts hitting the right spot, the friction of his prick between their stomachs, and Wade biting at one of his pecs, just a few inches from his nipple. Peter howls his pleasure as orgasm hits him, and Wade grunts as his cock is tightly clenched by Peter’s spasming muscles. 

His thrusts become quicker, less coordinated, Peter allowing him to take his pleasure despite the oversensitivity of his abused hole. Soon, he stills, as hot spurts of sperm fill Peter, almost soothing to his burning insides, and muffles a moan into Peter’s bicep. In a pang of affection, Peter caresses the bald head soothingly. His heart clenches as Wade leans into it, a travesty of love, of tenderness, after their animal coupling.

Wade helps Peter climb off of him to stand on shaky legs, the spend leaking out of him dissolving into the water. The urge to stay close, to seek comfort, overwhelms Peter, and he almost gives in to it, but something in Wade’s eyes, a fragile vulnerability, makes him pause. 

Wade, as is his habit, deflects the tension with a joke. “Damn, pup, I think you just chafed my dick for good. Don’t know if it’ll ever be the same.” Peter slaps one of his firm pecs with a huff, rolling his eyes to hide the lingering softness he’s afraid will show through.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor leading back to the castle pushes them apart to a more reasonable distance, and Peter immerses himself to the shoulders in the water to hide the smell of what they’ve just done, while Wade doesn’t seem to care for one bit about it, his still half hard and red dick hanging over the water, leaving no doubt as to what just happened.

“Peter, are you decent? I don’t want to be scarred for life. Well, not anymore than I already am,” Tony’s voice precedes his appearance, hand covering his eyes carefully. Peter sighs at the childish behaviour.

“We’re not doing anything, Tony.”

Peering between his fingers, Tony drops his hand and arches a doubtful eyebrow. “Well, at the smell of it, I am lucky I didn’t come here earlier.”

Heat spreads on Peter’s cheeks, and he sinks further under the water, his mouth barely held above it to speak. “What is it?”

“The two Vipers Cap called for help arrived. They have intel. About your mage.”

Wade and Peter exchange a look. The hunger and eagerness of the hunt flares back in the Cat’s eyes, and Peter feels a sense of dread settling in his gut. But they get out of the pool, dry themselves and slip clothes on in record time, following Tony outside of the steamy room.

*

Peter has never met the two Witchers, which isn’t too surprising when most of them try to stay out of each other’s Path. But he wouldn’t have expected Cap to socialize with Vipers. Those that are left, have almost as bad a reputation as Cats. They too accept contracts on humans and non-humans, and have adopted a less “honourable” way of fighting.

With the Cats, too, they are the only School that used to train and create female Witchers. Peter has only met a couple in his life, and he can say with certitude they are as deadly as any male. The only thing that differentiate them is that they have the advantage of surprise with men who tend to think they’re weaker.

One of the Vipers is a woman, a short, muscled woman with fiery red hair loose around her head, piercing green eyes cataloguing every information with precision. She’s beautiful, but very scary, Peter decides immediately.

The man accompanying her is barely taller than her, and closer in built to Peter than Cap or Thor. He wears a garish purple gambeson, and a complex crossbow strapped to his back. He seems friendlier than the woman, but Peter does not miss the strength hiding in his wiry muscles.

By the time Wade, Tony and Peter emerge from the hot pools, the others have assembled in the main hall and are speaking in hushed tones, though there is no one in the Kaedweni mountains that could hear them.

The red headed woman and her companion watches them approach with careful suspicion, her gaze lingering a while longer on Wade.

“Peter, Deadpool, this is Clint and Natasha, from the School of the Viper. They’ve agreed to help us, and come with precious information about our… target.”

Clint waves at them half-heartedly, tired from the hike up, but Natasha’s eyes don’t leave Wade.

“I’d ask if we’ve met before, scary snake lady,” Wade chirps, “but I’m pretty sure I’d remember that death glare if I had seen it before.”

“You stole a big contract from me, thirty years ago, in Ard Carraigh,” the woman - Natasha - says in a cold voice. “I’ve been… waiting to meet you.”

“Somehow I feel like you’re not saying that in a friendly way,” Wade replies cheerfully.

The silence stretches for a few tense seconds, Natasha glaring daggers in Wade’s direction, before Tony intervenes in a tired voice.

“Personal business will have to wait, ladies. We need to think of a plan to stop Fatalis.”

Peter’s head turns so fast to look at his mentor that he feels something cracking in his neck. “You know the mage’s name?”

“Our new friends here have been very busy looking for information. Somehow their way seems to have been more fruitful than killing and terrorising henchmen and accomplices,” he gives a pointed look to Wade, who doesn’t look sorry in the least. “If you don’t mind repeating what you told us,” he addresses Natasha next.

She sighs, but concedes, choosing to look at Peter instead of Wade’s shit-eating grin. “We’ve been suspecting something weird was happening for a while, there have been… rumours, lately. But we didn’t connect the dots until we received Steve’s letter. Before coming here we made a detour by Novigrad. Amazing what you can learn in a public bathhouse,” she says with a mischievous smirk, like she made a joke only she is privy to.

“What she means is that Clint and her have a contact in the Redanian Intelligence based in Novigrad. A rather important one, too,” Tony explains at Peter’s confused expression.

Natasha nods, all traces of humour gone from her face. Back to business. “Apparently Fatalis has been on the Redanian spy services radars for a while, but because so many powerful people, including King Radovid, are supporting him, they’re paid to ignore him. Thankfully, the spymaster isn’t really happy with Fatalis’... goals, so it wasn’t really hard to convince him to tell us what he knows.”

Clint speaks for the first time, picking up where Natasha left off, like they’ve rehearsed this particular conversation, or like they’re a very well greased mechanism. “Victor von Fatalis has not actually graduated from Ban Ard. He’s been fully trained as a mage, but his… ethics, or lack thereof, was not appreciated by his teachers. It’s not the first time he tries to do something extreme under the pretense of ‘the greater good’. Seems to me he’s more a self-absorbed prick with an inferiority complex.”

“One of his earlier experiences reportedly disfigured him, and as he has not gained the right to go through the usual physical transformation mages in Ban Ard and Aretuza are encouraged to go through, he’s wearing a glamour most of the time. Which helps with being inconspicuous when he wants to.”

“Well, I’m very happy we’re getting the villain’s backstory,” Wade interrupts, and everyone seems to remember his presence at the same time. “But I think we’d rather know what he’s up to these days, you know. As we’re trying to stop him.”

Natasha’s glare turns even deadlier, something Peter wouldn’t have thought possible. “Given as we’ve been more efficient in learning about his whereabouts in a couple of days than you were in several months, I think you can shut up and wait until we’re finished, Cat,” she hisses.

Peter expects Wade to quip something witty back, one of his infuriating jokes or incomprehensible references, but instead he seems to harden, both in body and in mind.

“If I hadn’t been there to investigate the other Witchers’ disappearances and the rumours, as you said, none of you would have fucking thought twice about it before it was too late. You’re so busy trying to stay out of trouble, to not meddle with human affairs, that you would have closed your eyes when facing the worst bullshit we could all think of, unless someone was there to rub it in your face. So don’t come at me thinking you’re so much better when I was the only one willing to do what had to be done.”

The atmosphere is so tense Peter can’t help but reach out automatically for the sword he doesn’t have with him. Natasha and Wade look like fighting cats, spitting and hissing at each other, and no one seems to be willing to put a stop to it. They are all of equal forces here, though they all have their particularities, but putting oneself between the two angry Witchers just sounds like a good way to get maimed. Peter instinctively looks at Cap, who is observing the scene with crossed arms and a furrowed brow. The Griffin understands his silent request, and moves just a tiny bit closer, putting his palms on the wooden surface of the table, taking more space by a simple shift in stance.

“We can’t afford to fight with each other. As Tony said, there are more important matters right now. And as much as I hate to admit it, Deadpool is right. Time is crucial. We need to act fast. Children’s lives are at stake, and we don’t know how close Fatalis is to his goal.” He turns more fully towards Natasha, who has relaxed her fighting stance and is looking at him with reluctant acceptance. “We are grateful for the work you’ve done. The information you have gathered may be crucial for us having any chance of success in this battle. Do you know where Fatalis is hiding?”

Natasha nods with a somber look as Clint replies, “Aye. He’s claimed an old abandoned lighthouse in Skellige. Fishermen say they hear screams and see weird lights there at night, but no one gets close because of the reefs and the dozens of specters of drowned sailors haunting the place.”

Defeat sinks in Peter’s stomach. “Skellige is at the other side of the Continent. It’s at least two months riding to the coast, and then another one to cross the sea. He’ll have the time to build a whole army by the time we’re there.”

Equally defeated looks flit across everyone’s features for a moment until Thor, quiet until now, speaks up.“I have a druid friend on Skellige. He can open us a portal.”

“Even if he does, there’s no way to contact him fast enough. A messenger bird is faster than a rider, but it’ll still take longer than what little time we have.”

“He has given me a means to contact him in urgency. It won’t take more than a day for him to receive my message, and he can portal here directly.”

“Are you certain he is not working with Fatalis? He probably has friends and accomplices on Skellige, or he wouldn’t have hidden there,” Cap asks with a doubtful frown.

Thor shakes his head, an affronted gleam shining in his eye at the idea. “Heimdall is a good man. I have known him for most of my life, and his only care is keeping the balance between Chaos and Nature. Whatever this Fatalis is doing, it goes against what he believes is right. He’ll support us.”

Cap searches for any glint of uncertainty in Thor’s fierce golden eyes, and finding none, nods gravely.“Send your message, then. Tonight, we shall prepare. Mend your armours, sharpen your swords. Rest. Tomorrow, we fight.”

At the somber words, everyone parts, Bruce showing Natasha and Clint to a room where they can spend the night, Thor leaving in the direction of his own, Steve and Tony discussing in hushed tones next to the fireplace.

Peter senses Wade leaving his side and turns to see the Cat’s somber face, lost in his thought.“Where are you going?”

“Didn’t you hear Sir Broom-in-my-Ass? We’ve got to prepare.”

Peter starts to follow him back to their shared room, when Tony calls for him.

“Kid, I want to talk to you for a minute if you don’t mind.”

Glancing at Wade, who doesn’t even look back at him, Peter obeys and waits for his mentor to catch up with him. “Let’s go for a walk,” Tony says, and Peter catches Steve’s serious gaze over them. Somehow, he feels like he’s ten again, going to be punished by one of his teachers. Despite knowing he’s not going to like what’s coming, he nods, and follows Tony to the great double doors of the entrance.

It hasn’t snowed since Wade and him arrived at the Keep, but the ground of the training yard is frozen and almost glistening under the light of the moon. Neither Tony or Peter are dressed for a walk outside, but the remaining walls of Kaer Morhen manage to stop most of the wind, and their Witcher mutations keep them warm enough as long as they don’t stay outside for hours.

Peter waits for his mentor to talk, but Tony seems to be searching for his words, which might be a first. They walk in silence for a while, following the battlements, observing the valley expanding before them.

“Why do I feel like you’re going to tell me my horse died?” Peter asks, trying for levity. 

Tony chuckles, but doesn’t look at him.“No, no, your horse is fine. Well, I think she is. Never been a big fan of horses.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter replies, remembering fondly of the number of times Tony would complain about his horses when he was still active on the Path.

“No, we… I just wanted to talk to you about Deadpool.”

“Wade,” Peter corrects. “His name is Wade.”

“Whatever. I know you two became… close, while you were after Fatalis. I get that, really, I do. The Path gets lonely, sometimes.” Tony sighs. “All the time, actually.”

Peter temps down the urge to deny his and Wade’s… friendship. It’s no use trying to hide secrets in a keep full of Witchers. “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ somewhere.”

“Don’t play smart with me kid,” Tony chides. “Wade is a criminal. We need him to stop Fatalis, but we can’t let him walk free after the rampage murder he put up this year.”

“So, what? You’re going to use him when he’s helpful and then put him in prison because he did what he knew to survive, just like the rest of us? That’s not better than the men who hire him to kill people who inconvenience them, is it?”

“That’s a ridiculous oversimplification, kid-”

“Is it, really? Tony, you know I do not condone murder. You know that, right? But Wade, he’s a good man. He’s done some bad things. We’ve all done some bad things. None of us can say our hands are clean of blood. I think it’d be hypocritical to condemn Wade when we’ve all killed bandits, or Scoia’tael.”

“But that’s not the same, is it Peter? We only kill humans to defend ourselves. To defend each other. We do not take contracts for them.”

“Clint and Natasha probably do!”

“There’s no proof of that. Even if they did, they are nowhere near to Deadpool’s kill count. Even before he started his little murder trip to find Fatalis, he had killed more humans and non-humans than the freaking Plague. He’s a danger, Peter, and whatever your… entanglement is, it does not change that.”

A tight knot clenches at Peter’s throat. “You don’t know him like I do. It doesn’t have anything to do with how I feel about him. He’s a good man, you’d see it too if you gave him a chance. He’s been alone and hurting for too long, is all. He hasn’t killed anyone since we met. No one has ever shown him any other way to fight.”

“And so what? You’re going to be with him at all times, even after we’re done with Fatalis? Babysitting him? Whatever it is you see in him, Peter, you can’t pretend he’s not crazy. It’s in his eyes.”

“I… I know, but…” Peter sags, defeated. It’s like he’s betraying Wade by not fighting Tony more about this, but the truth is, Tony has a point.

“Look, kid. I know it’s hard. Finding someone who makes the loneliness go away is a gift few Witchers can aspire to. I’m happy you found someone, really, I am. I only wish it wasn’t him.”

Anger flares in Peter’s gut, sudden and intense. “And what do you know? All those years you’ve repeated that Wolves are lone hunters, that we shouldn’t get attached. That we’re meant to live and die alone.”

Tony gives him a tired smile. In the light of the moon, it looks like all his years are catching up to him, greying his hair and his skin, highlighting the wrinkles, and the weariness in his golden eyes. 

“Well, I guess it’s never too late to learn. No one is meant to live alone, kid.”

And Peter thinks back to all the times he’s arrived at Kaer Morhen at the beginning of winter to find Steve already here, helping Tony fix whatever leak in the roof or crumbled wall, and all the times he left before Steve in the spring, Tony pretending he needed help to hunt a wyvern or a nekker’s nest, but refusing that Peter stay longer to assist. It all makes a little more sense now.

He sighs, heat prickling at the corner of his eyes. “It’s not fair,” he whispers. “It’s not fair that we’re using him. It’s not fair that I don’t get to-” he cuts himself, feeling the lump in his throat dangerously close to burst in the shape of a sob.

“I know,” Tony says, and Peter doesn’t doubt he does. “Listen, kid. Cap wants to deliver him to a kingdom or another’s justice. I can’t pretend he’ll get anything else than a condemnation to be hanged, if he’s lucky. The Eternal Fire is going strong in more and more kingdoms. They might want to burn him. I’m not supporting this. I don’t support his… work ethics, either. But, I think, if we find a way to get him to report to us one way or another, maybe even get him to winter at Kaer Morhen from now on, and he swears not to take contracts on humans and non-humans anymore, maybe I could… convince Steve to change his mind,” he scratches his head, sighing. 

Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing.“You… you’d do that?”

Tony shrugs. “I don’t believe in a world in black and white. If you say there’s good in him, I believe you. I think you’re bringing it out of him, too. And if you two are a good team, then, who am I to interfere?”

A silence stretches between them, Peter thinking about how much he wants to reveal his inner turmoil to his mentor. The sound of a window opening turns their attention back to the castle, where Thor, leaning out of his bedroom window, whispers a few words to an obsidian black raven, which takes off, its feather glinting under the pale moonlight, and disappears in a whirl of magic and feathers. Thor spots them, down on the battlements, and waves at them before closing his window and curtains again.

“I don’t… I don’t think he’ll want to see me when this whole mess is over, you know. I can’t promise I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“You two are joined at the hip. It’s obvious to everyone. If you can’t see it, then you’re dumber than I gave you credit for.”

Peter blushes, glad the moon is casting everything in shades of gray so his embarrassment is not too obvious. “It’s just… physical, you know. We’re not together or anything. I don’t think he wants that.”

Tony grimaces. “Well thank you for the mental images, kid. I don’t want to know what you two get up to in your free time.” His expression softens then. “Listen, I’m not the one you should come to for emotional advice, but I think you should tell him about what you want. We’re Witchers, not mind readers.”

Peter nods, sheepish. The awkwardness of the moment seems to reveal itself to them at the same moment, as Tony clears his throat twice and shrugs like a fly is bothering him, and Peter blushes even more furiously.

“Let’s get back inside, right kid? We have to get ready. Big day tomorrow.”

They head back inside in silence. Steve is still in the great hall, sitting at the dinner table, backlit by the gently dimming fire. His eyes glint, golden and calm, as he watches them approach.

“Good talk?” He asks, more to Tony than to Peter, though he looks at them both like he is trying to see in their mind how their conversation went.

“Yeah,” Tony answers, glancing at Peter. “Enlightening.”

Peter nods, and leaves them to it. He has something to discuss with Wade, and it cannot wait.

*

Their last couple of weeks of cohabitation has seen Wade’s things scattered all over Peter’s room, doubtfully dirty clothes strewn across the floor, sharp weapons hidden in every nook and cranny, and a book on wyvern mating open for several days to the same very detailed illustration.

All of that is gone now, packed neatly into Wade’s saddlebags, as he sits next to the fireplace, whetting his steel blade with single-minded focus. It makes the room feel colder, bigger, somehow. Peter tries not to dwell on how fast he took to sharing a space with someone else. With Wade, specifically.

“Hey,” Peter almost whispers. There’s a tension in the air, denser around Wade, like an invisible Quen shield. He is barely acknowledged, the swipes of the whetstone never faltering. “You okay?”

For a second he thinks Wade won’t reply, but a flicker of amber eyes in his direction tells him more than an entire speech. He fetches his own sword from the scabbards propped against the stone wall next to the door and sits down on the threadbare tapestry he uses as a rug. Wade interrupts his mindless sharpening only long enough to give his spare whetting stone and a cloth to Peter, and for a long moment, the room is filled with only the sounds of steel being sharpened.

When Peter deems his sword as sharp as it’ll ever be, he delicately settles it on the ground next to his side, and puts a tentative hand on Wade’s shoulder. “You’ll damage it if you keep going like that.”

Wade stops, frowns harder at his reflection on the smooth steel, then mirrors Peters and sets it aside. But instead of turning to face him, like Peter expects, Wade whips out a dagger from its sheath on his hip, and starts sharpening this one instead.

Peter huffs and catches the slight tug at the corner of Wade’s mouth. They’re okay, then. It makes what he has to say harder. If they had been in a fight, at least, he would have had an excuse to push this back. But he made a promise to himself. The fight tomorrow is going to be a dangerous one, and he’s not fooling himself: one or the both of them might not come out of it alive. He doesn’t want that to happen before he had a chance to say his part.

He takes a deep breath. “Hey, Wade, so huh… what do you think you’ll do when all of this is over?” He asks lightly, as if the question doesn’t tug at his stomach like something is trying to claw its way out of him.

A shadow passes on Wade’s expression, and Peter knows this is not how he should have started his passionate love confession.

“What, imagining I get out of this alive, and your righteous Mister Knightly Values doesn’t turn on me right away to throw me in the closest dungeon? I imagine I’ll hide for a while. Maybe in Zerrikania, or Kovir. I’m tired of all this cold. Not good for my bones.”

A stone sinks in Peter’s stomach. “Tony said that you could come back to Kaer Morhen next winter. And huh, the ones after that. As long as you stop killing humans and non-humans.”

“Oh, did he, now?” Wade’s expression hardens. “So he can keep an eye on me? Does he want me to wear a collar, too?”

“No, that’s not-” Hearing the anger rising in his tone, Peter cuts himself to breathe. That’s not how he wants this conversation to go. “I just thought- we could keep travelling together. When we’re done with Fatalis. We’re a good team. Natasha and Clint seem to be working together. If they can, why couldn’t we?”

“Oh, so that’s what you were talking about, then? You’re going to be Tony and Steve’s good little pup and make sure I don’t do anything they don’t want me to do?”

“What? No! Wade, I lo- I’ve enjoyed travelling with you, even if the circumstances weren’t right. I don’t want it to stop once we’re done with Fatalis. Do you?”

“What did you think, Peter? That we’d get to ride together in the sunset? That Fatalis is the only asshole in this godsdamned world? I’m not the good kind of Witcher, you know that. If you come with me it’ll be even worse than the bad looks and the occasional stone thrown your way. You’ll be associated with me. Haven’t you seen how your friends look at us when we’re together? Like I’ll soil your pure little heart. And they’re not wrong. We’re better off alone.” Wade seems to believe what he’s saying, though his anger is mostly directed at himself, which breaks Peter more surely than anything Wade said.

“The sex was nice. We shouldn’t have done it. It’s too easy getting used to nice things,” Wade adds with a closed off expression.

Peter is not going to cry, not because Witchers don’t cry or some stupid assumption like that. Only, he doesn’t think he can let himself wallow about it. He knew his feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated. He’s not surprised, really. It still hurts.

“We say goodbye tomorrow, then,” he says with a surprisingly steady voice.

Wade nods, expression drawn and weary, his scars casting shadows on his face in the light of the fire. “It’s better this way.”

Somehow, it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

  
  


*

Heimdall portals in Kaer Morhen before the sun has even reached the summit of the surrounding mountains. They are all ready, waiting in the grand hall, swords strapped to their backs and daggers to their waists. When the swirling spiral of magic starts forming, flinging every loose piece of paper around and rising the dust of the old hall, they all straighten up. A dark-skinned man with long, greying dreadlocks steps through the portal, only distinguishable from a mage by his less than courtly attire: a long robe dirtied by grass stains and dust, in soft, brown tones, instead of the usually colorful and pretentious garments mages usually prefer.

His face is solemn as Thor steps forward to greet him with a friendly embrace, and he acknowledges the rest of the company with a nod. 

“Thank you for your assistance, Heimdall of Skellige,” Steve says, taking the lead naturally as usual. “We cannot express our gratitude enough.”

Heimdall fixes him with intense hazel eyes, almost as golden as a Witcher’s. “Thor has my entire trust. If he says he needs my help, I give it to him without doubt. But your matter has worried me, and I find myself eager to assist. I will portal you to Skellige, but I do wish you will accept my help in the coming battle.”

A few looks are exchanged between the gathered Witchers, and Peter knows what is passing through all their minds: as of now, none of them trusts mages and other magic users as far as they could throw them. But they do need as much help as they can, and druids are as different from mages as a kikkimore is from an arachas. Steve comes to the same conclusion and accepts with a grateful expression. “Your offer is much appreciated, but I do not know how to repay such precious help.”

Heimdall shakes his head. “Do not worry about that now, my friend. The most important is to stop this rogue mage. We will discuss payment later.”

An unhappy twist to his lips, Steve nods. Peter, like the Griffin, doesn’t like the idea of owing a debt of unknown nature to a druid, but they are in a hurry, and if Thor is to be believed, Heimdall is a good, honourable man. He hopes this will prove true when the time to claim his reward comes.

The druid steps aside, holding an arm out to the portal. “I suggest that we hurry then. I cannot hold such a portal for long, and I need my strength for the battle.”

They line up, Thor and Steve the first to go through the swirling magic, followed quickly by Clint and Natasha who give Heimdall a suspicious once over, and lastly Tony and Bruce. 

When it’s only Wade and him left, Peter steps up to the druid with a tight smile plastered on his face, taking a deep inhale and locking it in his lungs before stepping through the portal. The last thing he hears before the world goes upside down is Wade’s grumbled “I fucking hate portals.”

*

The island they land on is a long, grey patch of rock whipped by strong winds west of Ard Skellig. Shipwrecks and tides have covered its shores with rotting wood and lost belongings. Peter has no trouble to believe the place is haunted by the lost souls of those who died in these shipwrecks.

Heimdall has portalled them a little ways away from their destination, so that they wouldn’t risk being spotted by whatever wards Fatalis has set around his hideout. It takes a couple minutes for everyone to regain their footing, stomach upset by the tumultuous transportation method.

The walk to the tower is long and harrowing. Freezing wind whips their cheeks and slows their progress. They have to walk in a line, the narrow path worming its way on the crest of the cliffs not allowing them to walk side by side, and they have to be careful not to fall on the rocky shores; the height shouldn’t be enough to kill a man, but the sharp rocks rising like crooked teeth certainly don’t look comfortable.

The lighthouse appears quickly, but it takes another half an hour walk before they get to it: wraiths keep appearing, screeching and slashing with rusty swords and axes. The eight Witchers and the druid dispatch them without breaking a sweat, but it still forces them to halt everytime a pale figure surges from the ether, waiting for the one of them closest to it to send it back where it comes from.

Their mood wasn’t light as they prepared for battle this morning, but now it’s downright foul. The cold and the wind and the piercing shrieks of dying wraiths has grated on everyone’s nerves, and as they gather a few hundred meters from the lighthouse where the path widens enough for them to form a tight circle, Peter finally feels like this is real.

The lighthouse doesn’t look like much, from the outside: an old, decrepit tower clearly left to rot by whoever was foolish enough to think such a secluded place was fit for human presence. There are runes and sigils on the once-white walls and some of the surrounding boulders. Heimdall examines them for a second before turning back to the expectant group.

“His wards are not very intricate. Either he is not a very powerful mage, or he has something else waiting for us inside. I can counter them for us to pass safely, but he’ll know we are here immediately.”

“He already knows,” Bruce says in his soft voice, and they all turn to look back at the lighthouse. The door has opened, and a silhouette is making its way towards them, stopping just before it reaches the edge of the protecting enchantments. 

Peter clenches his teeth when he recognizes Eddie. The other Witchers react with different levels of discomfort to his pale, marblelike skin, and the sickness of his eyes. He is not unlike what they all look like under high toxicity, when too many potions are coursing through their veins, but by the look of him, he would already be dead if that was the case. Black veins are bulging, sprouting around his eyes, down his neck and his arms where his light armour shows bare skin despite the cold.

Eddie doesn’t pay attention to any of them, only fixes his gaze on Peter, and smiles a wide and deranged grin. “So you’ve decided to give it a chance, then, Pete?” He says, not raising his voice, but even at this distance, all the Witchers hear him. “Finally got tired of being weak? Oh, and I see you’ve brought friends. Nice of you to share. I don’t know if Victor will have enough for all of you, but I’ll put in a good word.” He pauses, squints at Heimdall standing with them, and frowns. “I’m not sure about your human friend though. He’s a bit old.”

“We only want Fatalis, brother,” Natasha calls cautiously. “Stand down, let us deal with him, and we’ll take you to a healer when we’re done.”

Eddie’s frown deepens. “A healer? What for?” And he honest-to-gods looks like he has no idea what Natasha is talking about. “I am more powerful than I’ve ever been. More powerful than any of you.”

“What he’s done to you is cruel and unnatural. You’re just a tool to him, don’t you see?”

Eddie only laughs at that, a full blown laugh, throwing his head back and displaying the dark veins criss-crossing his throat. “As if we could ever pretend to be anything other than unnatural. We were all created by mage’s hands, in what is this different? Humans will have a reason to fear us now, a reason to call us monsters. Except we’ll be so much _more_ , and they won’t have any other choice than to respect us. To respect me.”

“They’ll only be more afraid.”

“Then I’ll be feared. But I’ll be powerful.”

Peter catches the grief and disappointment in Natasha’s expression when she realizes she won’t be able to reason with Eddie. That they don’t have any other option than to fight him. And however powerful the Viper thinks he is, he won’t stand a chance against their little army.

Clint and Natasha exchange a look, and there must have been a silent understanding between them as the redhead turns to nod at Steve. “We’ll deal with him. Get the mage.”

Both of them separate from the group, Clint unstrapping the crossbow from his back and loading two bolts. His and Natasha’s attack seems to be as rehearsed as a coordinated dance, as she unsheathes two long, visibly poisoned blades and starts running right towards Eddie, and Clint takes the side, climbing the rocks in a couple of jumps to take the higher ground. He starts shooting before Natasha has crossed half of the distance between Eddie and her. Their adversary deflects the first one with an Aard, smiling like he’s just crushed an annoying mosquito. The bolt splinters in a semi circle around him, and he unsheathes his sword. Peter expects Natasha to jump into the fight immediately, but as she draws closer, she slows, and waits for Eddie to do the first move. Peter understands why when the man steps forward, teeth bared in the facsimile of a smile. The bolt’s shards, as he approaches them, ignite in a wave of explosions that forces him to step back and protect his face with his arm.

Natasha takes advantage of the distraction and lowers herself, aiming her deadly blades to the uncovered stomach. Eddie blocks her attack with a strong blow of his sword, and she has to retreat lest she loses a limb. Clint keeps shooting bolts, distracting Eddie and forcing him to pay constant attention to the both of them.

For a second it looks like the fight will be short lived, but after casting Quen to deflect a coordinated attack, Eddie roars and stampedes at Natasha, faster than any of them could have expected. His charge, not unlike the mindless and unstoppable attack of a Shaelmaar, takes her by surprise, and she barely has time to jump out of reach. But Eddie is quick, and adjusts his course, tackling Natasha to the ground and pressing the edge of his sword to her neck. She manages to block it with her daggers, but Eddie is heavier, and she is barely able to slow him. Two of Clint’s bolts lodge themselves in Eddie’s back, but he doesn’t even react, his eyes bottomless pools of ink and his smile wide and hungry.

Bruce is the first to react: unsheathing the hammer he favors to a steel sword, he barrels into Eddie’s side, and the sound of broken ribs is clear even from where Peter and the rest of the group stands. The corrupted Viper grunts, unbalanced, and another bolt lodges itself between his left pauldron and his chest piece.

“Go!” Clint shouts at them as he jumps from his perch, crossbow traded for daggers similar to Natasha’s. “We’re good here, don’t let Fatalis escape again!” He helps Natasha get back on her feet before they both throw themselves into the melee, side by side with Bruce, who displays a rarely witnessed amount of strength.

Surprisingly, it is not Steve who takes the lead and resumes their progress towards the lighthouse, but Wade, mask firmly back in place, his two swords unsheathed. He runs by the four battling Witchers, and Heimdall barely has time to start chanting to counter the protection wards before he reaches the first engraved stones. Peter doesn’t wait for Steve’s signal before he follows him, cursing Wade under his breath. They might not be friends after today, but he still doesn’t want the Cat to die stupidly because of his impatience.

Thankfully he hears Steve shouting to follow to the lighthouse to those of them who are not currently busy with Eddie.

He reaches the open door mere seconds after Wade, and almost barrels into him where he stopped just after the threshold.

Inside, the little lighthouse has the appearance of a large, luxurious tower. It is way bigger than it should be, but that’s not surprising; mages often wove illusions and spells into their homes to fit it to their preferences. The pretentious decoration is not a surprise either. Fatalis certainly didn’t strike Peter as humble on their first encounter. 

What Peter didn’t expect, and Wade certainly didn’t, either, was to find Fatalis immediately, seated on an armchair that looks suspiciously like a throne, at the end of a table supporting one of the most beautiful feasts Peter has ever seen. Fatalis himself is not eating, reclined in his chair like a sheep keeper surveilling his herd. On each side of the table, a dozen children and teenagers are eating calmly with their heads bowed, not lending attention to the two new arrivants.

Fatalis, though, smiles a slow and lazy smile as he notices them. He doesn’t rise from his chair, doesn’t assume a defensive stance. He only looks at them with a delighted glint in his eyes, like they’re old friends who’ve paid him a surprise visit.

“Ah, children. We have guests. Be polite, say hi.”

All at once, the kids stop eating, their heads turning in Wade’s and Peter’s direction, their glassy golden gazes lending on them, and two dozens ‘hello’s echo in the room, monotones and apathetic voices rising to form only one in an eerie and disincarnated simulacre of politeness.

It rises the hair on Peter’s neck and arms, and Wade tenses beside him, sword in hand.

They did expect to have to fight today, whatever goons or minions Fatalis would have managed to get under his whims. Somehow, the idea that those minions would be the very children they are trying to save had not occurred to Peter.

“I guess, by Eddie’s absence, that he didn’t manage to convince you of my progress,” Fatalis’ handsome face scrunches in disappointment. “Oh well. A shame. You would have made such beautiful creations. Much better than this vulgar rough draft I had to content myself with for so long. Eddie is not a pleasant result and I hated looking at him. Though he did have his uses.”

“There are more of us outside, Fatalis.” Peter says. “You don’t stand a chance. Surrender now, we won’t hurt you.”

Fatalis laughs. “Oh, and what will you do, then? Put me into prison? Bring me to Ban Ard to be judged? They are all waiting eagerly for my creations. They’ll reward me for my genius. You are the ones trying to stop science, to slow progress. You are so jealous of your secrets, you don’t see how much they would bring the Continent. The entire world.”

“Progress should not be made at the expense of the weak,” a familiar voice speaks up behind Peter, and he relaxes slightly to feel Steve’s presence at his back, followed by the others. He doesn’t feel so powerless anymore. “What you are doing is repeating the mistakes of your predecessors. You will only manage to create a new reason for humans to hate, to fear, to isolate. That’s not what the Continent needs.”

“And who are you, to know what the Continent needs?” The mage spits, the illusion covering his face slipping, shifting with the flare of anger.

Steve steps forward, bypassing Peter and, to the young Wolf’s dismay, choosing to stand besides Wade. “I have been walking the Path for a hundred and fifty years. I have travelled every road, crossed every village, met every kind of human and non-human. Your ‘creations’ won’t be welcomed. They’ll be treated as monsters and forced to hide, until there are none of them left.”

“They’ll be perfect soldiers. We won’t have to send men to the battlefield against Nilfgaard, no one will lose fathers and brothers and sons anymore. And when the next Conjunction of Spheres comes, they’ll be here to defend our world. Perfect fighting machines, with no pesky feelings to get in the way of their mission.” 

“It’s funny you call yourself a genius,” Deadpool quips, the slow smile spreading on his face revealing a row of sharp teeth, “when mages have been trying to do the exact same thing to my brothers and I centuries ago. And when they didn’t get it right, we killed them real fucking slow. You’d know that if you hadn’t spent so much time sucking your own dick.”

White with rage, Fatalis draws a sign in the air in front of him. “Come on, children, let’s show our guests how strong you are.”

All at once, the kids drop their forks, push back their chairs, and turn to face the group of Witchers. Their eyes fill with black, their skin turn pale and waxy, veins pulsing with blood turned black, staring at them with unsettling disinterest as they fan out in the room and walk slowly toward the group, some of them with their knives still in their hand, others empty handed but fingers shaped like claws.

Peter would laugh at being faced with kids any other day, but the smug look on Fatalis’ face and the sounds of fighting still occurring outside where Natasha, Clint and Bruce seem to be struggling with only one enemy tell him that it’s not going to be easy. Especially when Wade, of all people, mumbles “The first one who harms one of these kids will be introduced to my blade personally. We have to get to the mage.”

Peter knows none of them would hurt one of these kids on purpose, but it is going to make the fight that much harder.

They’re kept from forming any sort of plan as the first of the children jumps at Steve, teeth bared, and the Griffin’s instincts are the only thing that keep his eyes from being gouged out, forming Quen at the last second. The kid bounces off the shield, making Peter wince at the violence of the shock, but he regains his footing quickly without seeming to have felt it at all.

This breaks the illusion of stillness in the room, and suddenly all the children are jumping at them, and it’s a chaos of Quen and Yrden, the Witchers adjusting to a fight meant to keep their adversary safe. Staying clustered won’t be to their advantage, and they all stray further into the room, trying to get closer to the mage who’s watching the fight with eager eyes.

Peter feels bad to use Aard to knock back the three kids attacking him, but any remorse fades when they get back up and charge again. 

The Witchers are outnumbered, and they can’t even use their usual fighting knowledge. They manage to defend themselves just fine, as the kids don’t seem to have any magical abilities or training, but it gets tiring quickly. Thor roars as six of the kids swarm him, none of them reaching even close to his shoulders, but making it hard for him to move. It’d almost be funny, to see such a big man being bested by children, but now it only makes him worry about the outcome of the fight. They need to get close to Fatalis, to cut whatever spell he’s woven around the kids, but the mage seems unperturbed.

“I can’t fucking wait for the invention of guns,” Wade grumbles somewhere on his left, but Peter doesn’t even ask what the fuck he is talking about as a plan takes shape in his mind.

Fending off the kids who are trying to claw at his face, Peter retreats to where Heimdall is holding his own better than any of them, restricting the kids with magical binds or putting them to sleep with a touch to their forehead.

“Heimdall!” He says, trying to keep his voice low. “I need you to portal me closer to Fatalis. We’ll never get to him at that pace.”

“I’m keeping an enchantment on the tower so he can’t portal out of here and escape. I can’t portal you and keep my spell up at the same time, it’ll be too much,” Heimdall shakes his head, and Peter can see the sweat gathering on his forehead from the strain.

“I’ll distract him for as long as you need,” says a voice behind Peter.

Clint, Natasha and Bruce have crossed the threshold, flecks of blood spattered on their faces and a noticeable absence of a feral Witcher following them telling everything Peter needs to know. They waste no time in helping the others, except for Clint who is watching Peter with a determined glint in his eyes, crossbow in one hand, two bolts in the other. 

When Peter nods, Clint jumps up the table between the plates full of food and the jugs of apple juice and wastes no time aiming for the mage who has lost his smile at the sight of the three new arrivals.“Hey asshole! You gonna keep hiding behind children for long?” The Viper calls, and Fatalis’ expression hardens, a hand rising at the same time Clint shoots the first bolt. 

It doesn’t even come near Fatalis, disappearing into thin air mid-distance, and the mage retaliates with a flash of dark green magic that fills the room with the smell of ozone and sulphur. Clint dodges it easily, miraculously keeping his feet out of a plate of mashed potatoes, and does not even wait to regain his footing before shooting again.

“Witcher!” Heimdall calls behind Peter, and when he turns around, the druid is moving his hands in the familiar gesture that indicates the creation of a portal. He barely waits for it to be fully formed, and barrels into it with his sword already in hand. 

"Peter, wait!" He hears Wade calling after him, before the portal closes and he's on the other side of the room, behind Fatalis, who hasn’t noticed him yet. He stalks closer, keeping low. Clint is still distracting the mage, alternating crossbow bolts and throwing knives now, but it’s getting harder for him to avoid both the mage’s spells and the children trying to pull him down the table. The food has been sent flying, plates and glasses broken, crushed under the steps of both the Witchers and their assailants. 

Peter raises his sword, knowing where to strike to incapacitate without killing the man, but before he has a chance to land his blow, a familiar clutch closes around his throat, and he can’t breathe anymore. Scrabbling at where the invisible hands are cutting his airways proves ineffective, and shame fills his gut as powerless tears well up in his eyes.

“Well, I see you never learn, Peter,” Fatalis drawls, a vaguely disappointed look on his face as he turns towards him, the projectiles Clint keeps sending his way all bouncing off an invisible barrier Fatalis doesn’t even seem to put any effort in keeping up. “Wasn’t the first time enough for you? I’ve been nice with you. Merciful. Maybe I shouldn’t have. You don’t look very grateful.”

Peter’s got a dozen things he wants to say, but he can’t push air into his lungs, let alone articulate words. He hears Tony yell something at him, but it’s all muffled by the sounds of battle and the blood rushing in his ears. He can survive a long time without air, but he has no doubt Fatalis has enough power to wait until his heart stops beating.

“What a good idea you had to bring all your Witcher friends here today. How symbolic that the old generation dies at the hand of the new one.”

Weakly, Peter casts Igni, but with the lack of oxygen it only comes in a pitiful couple of flames that Fatalis’ extinguishes with a dismissive gesture.

“Maybe I’ll have a reward for ridding the Continent of your kind,” Fatalis says with a crazy glint in his eye, his face so close to Peter’s he can guess the shape of disfigured skin behind the charming illusion. “A medal would look good on my cloak.” He taps a finger on his chest, where a flash of emerald catches Peter’s eye as his vision starts to get fuzzy at the edges. A pretentious silver brooch, inlaid with emeralds, holds the sides of Fatalis’ green cape. 

Peter doesn’t make a conscious decision, only trying to find something to anchor himself to reality, before he rips the jewelry from the mage’s clothes. Fatalis looks confused for a second, looking down at the brooch in Peter’s hand, the realization hitting him at the same time as the illusion starts slipping. 

The fading magic reveals a disfigured face, like something has melted the skin somehow, pale and waxy, with beady eyes that fill with rage the longer Peter stares.

Fatalis yells, hiding his face in his hands and stepping back. Peter feels the clutch around his throat lessen a bit, enough for him to gulp in a lungful of air. He falls on his hands and knees, heaving, trying to gather himself enough to take advantage of Fatalis' blindsided rage. 

The mage is stumbling back, and Peter notices the barrier between them in the rest of the room faltering, like it's getting weaker. On the other side, Steve and the rest of the Witchers are still fending off the kids, but more have been put to sleep or stunned by Heimdall's magic and some strong Aards.

Fatalis seems to have regained his wits enough to notice that Peter's no longer under his thrall, and stalks towards him, ancient words spilling from his lips like venom as he watches him with pure, unrestrained rage. Peter knows he doesn't have a chance to survive whatever spell this is. He raises a tired arm in a useless attempt to protect himself, and waits for the killing blow. 

Nothing comes.

Instead, the smell of blood fills his senses, and dread pools in his gut at the idea that one of the kids has managed to harm one of the Witchers, or the other way around, but when he lifts his head, he is greeted by the sight of a curved blade, dripping blood, protruding from Fatalis’ chest. The mage is staring at the sword with an offended expression, shock keeping the pain at bay for the moment.

On the other end of the sword, Wade peeks over Fatalis’ shoulder, meeting Peter’s gaze for a second. His mask is nowhere to be seen, and three red gashes are starting to heal just under his right eye.

“Don’t you dare touch him, you self absorbed ugly ass shitstain.”

Once the realisation settles on Fatalis’ features, his eyes fill with fury, and his hands start to glow a yellowish green, Chaos crackling at the tip of his fingers.

“Wade, be careful!” Peter’s throat burns as he forces himself to speak, panic numbing the pain in his lungs.

Before Fatalis has time to cast his next spell, the sword embedded in his torso is pulled out, a spurt of warm blood spraying Peter’s face. Fatalis shouts in pain and fury, turning to face Wade, who doesn’t leave him time to counterattack. His sword slashes, so fast it is almost invisible, and everything seems to go still for a second. The swirl of magic in Fatalis’ hands fade and disappear, and Peter can’t make sense of it until the mage’s body crumples on the ground right where he is standing, and his head rolls on the cobblestones as a puddle of blood grows where his neck has been severed.

Wade crouches next to the body, a distant expression on his face as he wipes his blade with a corner of the mage’s cape. He sheathes it before meeting Peter’s eyes and standing to cross the few steps that separate them.

“You okay there pretty boy?” Wade asks, his hand hovering near Peter’s shoulder, not touching like he’s scared to overstep some unspoken boundary. The distance between them is more than Peter can take as he tries to calm his wildly beating heart and soothe the burn in his lungs, and he hooks a hand behind Wade’s neck, dragging him closer so their foreheads can rest against one another.

“We did it,” he whispers hoarsely. “It’s over.”

A gloved hand comes up to caress his cheek with unbearable tenderness. “Yeah. We’re done.” Wade sounds as tired as Peter feels, and that’s the only reason Peter can think of to excuse what happens next.

He’s pretty sure he’s not the one who closed the distance between them, but between one breath and the next, he’s being kissed hotly and urgently, chapped lips pressed against his in a familiar feeling he thought he’d never get to experience again. 

The surprise only lasts for a second, and he loses himself in the sensation. Somehow, he finally feels like he can breathe normally again, the warmth filling him as they nip and lick at each other bringing life back into his limbs. It’s a long kiss, just on the verge of desperate, and it tells him more than Wade’s words ever could. He clings to the other’s shoulders, desperate to feel more of him, to reassure himself they are both alive and whole. But a cough behind Wade reminds him there is still a fight going on.

Or at least there should be, but when he pulls back, Wade chasing him until Peter stops him with hands on his chest. Only then does he realize the room is considerably calmer than before. 

All the kids are lying on the floor and for a dreadful second Peter thinks they are dead, but he hears too many heartbeats and slow, deep breaths. Clint is the one standing closest to them, and he answers Peter’s silent question with a smirk on his face. “They’re okay. Fell asleep when Fatalis kicked the bucket. Heimdall says they’ll wake up in a couple of hours.”

“Will they still be…” Peter can’t bring himself to ask.

Clint shrugs. “Apparently the state they were in was triggered by a spell. Now that Fatalis is dead, they shouldn’t be so violent. But they’ve still been mutated, and drugged too. I don’t think whatever this is can be… fixed.”

Even though Peter expected it, grief weighs heavy in his chest. Those children have been ripped from their lives, however poor or lonely, and made into tools for a madman’s egotic quest. They have nowhere to go, nowhere where they’ll fit. Kaer Morhen isn’t suited to children, it never was in the first place. Peter refuses to think about bringing them there, repeating the past’s mistakes. He’s sure Tony and Bruce are thinking the same.

With effort, Peter gets back to his feet, pulling Wade with him. He doesn’t dare to look at him right now, preferring to focus on the matters he at least has some control over. “Everyone okay?”

Clint nods. “A couple of bruises and scratches. Thor’s ego probably won’t ever be the same. But no real harm done.”

Peter releases a breath, taking in the scene in front of him. Heimdall is checking the kids, pale and tired, but the magic sparking from his fingers as he makes sure none of them is harmed reassures Peter on his state. Tony and Steve are talking in hushed tones, and Peter can see where Steve’s hand on Tony’s shoulder caresses the skin of his neck bared by his armour. Peter averts his eyes, sparing them as much intimacy as a Witcher’s senses can. Natasha is helping Bruce, who looks exhausted and sad, but the softness in his eyes as he looks at her is one Peter has never seen in him.

Somehow, Thor ended up with two kids on his lap, and he looks quite astonished by the situation. He sits completely still though, his long blonde hair mussed and his bulk dwarfing the two little bodies snoring lightly against him like he’s the most comfortable bed that ever was.

A tickle against his neck brings Peter back to his own situation and, this time, he watches Wade’s face closely. His brow is pinched as he traces the angry red marks around Peter’s throat with the tips of his fingers.

“I should have made that fucker suffer longer. Fucking asshole,” he punctuates with a kick to the limp body next to them.

Peter huffs, and this time he doesn’t blame the exhaustion for his action. He cradles Wade’s face in his hands, tracing his fingertips along the raised scars, and kisses him squarely on the mouth. He hears Clint sigh behind them, but he doesn’t give a shit about it. 

This kiss is slower than the last, slower than any they’ve shared, and Peter dares to pour everything in it, without care for what it reveals of himself. Wade lets out a whine, muffled by Peter’s mouth, and it would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so damn good. Wade’s hands come up behind his back and press him against his strong body, and it’s a bit uncomfortable with their armours on, but Peter wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Once again they are interrupted by a holler, from Tony this time. “You’re gonna scar the kids for life if you keep that up! Come here, we still have work to do.”

This time they separate slowly, a dreamy smile on Wade’s lips that has Peter smirking. “We’re coming!” he shouts at Tony, before focusing back on the Witcher in his arms. He ignores Clint’s grumbled “Gross”, especially as Wade’s thumb comes up to caress his bottom lip.

“You good?” Wade asks. 

“Yeah,” Peter breathes. “You?”

“Never been better,” Wade replies in the same hushed tone, and Peter feels a giddy grin split his face. Their fingers brush when they separate and never stray far from each other as they join the other Witchers outside.

They discuss what to do next, what should be done with the kids now, and there’s a weary atmosphere settling on them, until Bruce mentions an orphanage in Mahakam that specializes in helping non-human and magically gifted children. They all agree it’s not the best, but it’s better than releasing all of them back into the world without a word, or bringing them to Kaer Morhen and raising them the only way Witchers know: coldly, without love.

Watching how soft Tony looks at Steve as he speaks, and feeling Wade’s warm presence next to him, Peter thinks it might not be exactly true. But they have a lot to learn, and so sending the kids to the orphanage seems like the best solution until something else is decided.

Heimdall, Bruce and Steve portal to the orphanage, while the others are left to make sure the kids are safe and don’t wake up alone. 

Peter fishes a few rations of dry meat and an apple out of the small pack he brought, and looks around for Wade. He’s not inside, with Thor looking over the children like it’s his new life mission, nor is he on the rocks outside to enjoy the few sunrays that manage to filter through the grey clouds. Peter frowns, walking down the path that led them to the lighthouse. A little ways away, two silhouettes stand, and Peter’s heart drops for a second when he recognizes Tony and Wade. He speeds up a little, straining his hearing, but the wind keeps their conversation from him.

Tony is the first to notice him, and he says a last few words to Wade, before making his way back to the lighthouse. As he passes by Peter, he claps him on the shoulder, meeting his gaze for just a second. “Don’t waste your chance, kid.” And then he’s gone, and Peter has no idea what he means, but he meets Wade’s eyes, and he knows he has to do something, or he’ll lose him.

“Where are you going?” he asks, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.

Wade sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.“I’m going back to the Path, Petey. The monster won’t kill themselves.” He pauses, thinks. “Well, some of them might, it’s mating season soon. But I’d rather do it myself, there’s less collateral damage. And I haven’t been on Skellige for a while, there’s a few friends I want to visit while I’m here.”

“And how will you get there? The closest inhabited island is a couple hours away by boat. You don’t have a boat.” That’s not the kind of detail he should have to remind anyone, but apparently, it is.

Wade shrugs. “I’m a fast swimmer. It’ll be a good exercise.”

Peter doesn’t even mention how stupid this idea is by itself, let alone when one knows how siren infested Skellige’s waters are.“You left all your things in Kaer Morhen,” he says instead.

“I have the essential with me,” Wade replies cheerfully, giving the leather buckle strapping his swords to his back an affectionate pat. “And there’s nothing I can’t buy.”

“Wade, you left _Princess_ there. You’re just going to buy a new horse?”

Wade’s eyes widen a bit, like he hasn’t actually considered this particular issue. “Well huh, he’ll be just fine with you. He’s a good horse, better than the mule wannabe you got sold. Just make sure to give him an apple from time to time, or he gets cranky.”

“Wade, I’m not going to take your horse. Why don’t you come back to Kaer Morhen? You can be back in Skellige in a few months if that’s really that important,” Peter says, but he knows why Wade is being stubborn. He doesn’t want to hear it though.

Wade sighs. “Listen, pup, I know we had a moment back there,” he gestures at where the lighthouse stands out of view, “a very nice moment. But that doesn’t mean I changed my mind. You’ll be better without me. I don’t want to make your life harder than it has to be.”

“Is that what Tony told you? Because I’m pretty tired of all of you thinking you have the right to decide what _I_ need. I know what I want, and I’m not a kid anymore. I make the decisions that concern my life. If you want to go because you don’t want to see me anymore, then alright, go, but don’t pretend you’re doing it for me.”

Wade stares at him for a while, like he’s just been struck by lightning.

“Tony said he expected to see me next winter. That it’s always better to go up the trail when you’re two.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Wade smiles a sheepish smile. “You think he figured us out?”

Peter can barely hold a giddy laugh, putting on a serious face he knows must not be very convincing. “I think he might. We’ve been so careful, I don’t understand.”

They smile at each other for a while.

“It’s not going to be easy. I’m going to have to lay low for a while. Avoid big cities.”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t like cities.”

“You won’t get discounts at inns for your pretty eyes if you’re seen with me anymore.”

“I don’t get discounts,” Peter growls, but there’s no heat to it.

“A shame.” The mischievous glimmer in Wade’s eyes makes Peter’s heart beat just a tiny bit faster. It’s a little mortifying, but he doesn’t care. Wade sobers then, teasing forgotten. “But I’m serious, Peter.”

“Like you’re even physically capable of that,” Peter scoffs, but doesn’t let Wade’s expression darken further. “And I don’t care about all of that. I’m tired of being miserable. You make me happy. Don’t let it go to your head,” he warns as he catches Wade’s smug expression. “We don’t have to walk the Path together all the time, but we can meet sometimes. Walk side by side for a while. We can be friends, without the threat of a crazy mage to force us to work together.”

“Friends?” Wade asks, arching an inexistant eyebrow up.

Peter tries his best not to be flustered. “If that’s what you want, yes.”

“I’m pretty sure me having my tongue down your throat half an hour ago wasn’t meant to be read platonically.”

“And we have a history of miscommunication, so excuse me for wanting things to be clear between us.” Peter replies a bit more petulantly than what he aimed for.

Wade makes a show of pretending to think for a couple minutes, and it would infuriate Peter if he wasn’t so in love with the ridiculous man. He rolls his eyes when Wade bows exaggeratedly and takes his hand.

“Well, Peter of the Wolf School, will you allow me to court you like a proper gentleman?”

“No, you asshole. I’ll allow you to fuck me against that rock, though.”

Wade gasps, scandalized. “Peter! There are kids on this island!”

“Fine,” Peter huffs, hooking his fingers in the strap on Wade’s chest to tug him closer. “But you’ll have to fuck me when we’re back at Kaer Morhen. I’ve had a very unsatisfactory fight and I have a lot of unspent energy.”

“Romance is truly dead,” Wade grumbles as he settles his hands low on Peter’s back.

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me, Cat.”

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Nirlan, and to [biancarambles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/biancarambles/pseuds/biancarambles) for beta-ing this fic at such short notice.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] All Cats Are Grey In The Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139624) by [Cheermione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheermione/pseuds/Cheermione)




End file.
